


Threefold

by CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball



Series: Equilibrium of Three Forces [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Erik Killmonger, Alpha M'Baku, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Omega T'Challa (Marvel), Omega Verse, Original Child Characters, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Wakanda (Marvel), Wakandan Technology, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-03-27 16:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball/pseuds/CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball
Summary: True mates are a gift of Bast. The circumstances don't do Wakanda's King any favors.Now it's a series. What am I doing with my life.





	1. how it starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is a story that plays some years before the plot of Threefold starts.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14303709)
> 
>  
> 
> [And here is Erik's POV of the first two chapters of Threefold.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14523663)

When Prince T’Challa is born an Omega, the tribes of the planes of Wakanda celebrate for a week. The Jabari send a gift for the Golden Tribe’s heir, the first in two hundred years, because the young prince is the first blessed of Bast born to the royal line in all that time. He likes his rattle of sacred wood, and his toy shield, and the blanket made of the softest fleece.

T’Challa grows up happy, protected and bright, like an Omega should. He also takes up his warrior training in earnest, far beyond what a King needs to know for self-defense.

When T’Chaka lays down the mantle of the Black Panther, he sternly forbids his twenty-year-old son from competing in the ritual tournament. Only Princess Shuri, five years old and more stubborn than alphas twice her age, cheers when he takes off his mask in front of the entire country, victorious.

His hand is sought after, but he never takes up a serious courtship despite his parent’s gentle hints, and his sister’s continued teasing.

His father’s hopes were on W’Kabi, T’Challa’s best friend, a beta and heir of the Border Tribe, and he would have considered it, were the growing love between W'Kabi and Okoye not plain for all to see. His mother had placed her bets on Nakia, the Omega daughter of the River Tribe chief who trained with the Dora Milaje, and T’Challa did nurse a crush on her for a while, but it was entirely unreciprocated.

In his heart, he is certain that he will know his mate when he sees them.

Foreigners don’t respect Omegas, not really, despite what the westerners all like to claim. For his father’s and Okoye’s peace of mind, T’Challa goes on blockers for the conference. It’s an intramuscular depot shot that will hide his status for a month, because there are diplomatic visits planned for after the conference. His status is a secret kept by an entire nation, and no matter how the foreign reporters hassle their staff, they never get an answer.

Zemo happens. He holds his father dead in his arms, and feels a rage unlike any he has ever known. The Avengers happen, too. T’Challa finds back to his own heart before he becomes like the man that he hates. He brings his father home, comforts his mother and holds his little sister at the funeral. He haggles and outright pleads with Okoye, and bribes Shuri with a promise of two new satellites when he is King, and helps Steve Rogers out of a tight spot. They put the broken white boy on ice and Shuri cracks her knuckles.

He does not need long to convince Okoye to bring Nakia home. His General is an Alpha, and as calm and controlled as she might be, she cannot completely suppress the protective streak. Wakandans guard their Omegas jealously, not that anyone ever managed to hold Nakia back. When he sees Nakia, he hugs her immediately, then uses his suit to shelter her from the last soldier’s bullets before Okoye does the rest.

Nakia holds his hand in comfort on the airship, and they catch up. Mateship is not even something she has seriously considered yet, and she deals with her short, unmated heats through suppressants. T’Challa will have to take the matter more seriously once he is king. Starting tomorrow.

A part of T’Challa desperately yearns for the true mateship that his parents had. It’s common in Wakanda to find one’s true mate, or mates. Theirs is a relatively small country, blessed by Bast and the ancestors. It is one of the priest’s most sacred duties to help every Wakandan find their matches. Shuri and Ayo have a bet running on when his mother will trap him into afternoon tea with Zuri.

T’Challa meets his mate on the day of his coronation. That is the good news. The bad news is threefold. _First_ , his mate is M’Baku, chief of the Jabari, who openly declares his disdain for T’Challa, his little sister, their ways, and everything they stand for. T’Challa freezes entirely when he sees him, before he manages to accept the challenge. _Second_ , the blockers are still very much in his system, so his mate absolutely does not recognize him. Which leads to _third_ , his mate tries to kill him at their first meeting. He stabs T’Challa in the chest. It really happens. Maybe this is his punishment for not protecting his father better.

He puts his Alpha into a chokehold over the edge of Warrior Falls and all but begs him to yield. M’Baku does, and leaves, and T’Challa becomes king, and everyone is too busy celebrating to notice that their King is lost in thought.

Klaue appears, T’Challa makes W’Kabi a promise, and Shuri asks if he is alright.

He almost kills Klaue. Everett Ross is a very rare, reasonable American. His Omega status is the only reason Okoye does not impale him on that desk over there. The wall explodes, and Ross takes a bullet for Nakia, and T’Challa runs outside. He freezes.

_It can’t be._

His mate is back in Wakanda, safe. But something about the stranger’s eyes behind the mask hits him straight in the chest. And then there is the ring.

Again, the bad news come threefold. _First,_ his mate tries to shoot him upon their first meeting, and he works for Klaue. _Second,_ T’Challa’s promise to W’Kabi is broken, as well as Zuri’s silence. And finally, _third,_ his mate has every reason to hate T’Challa and his family. And he does.

T’Challa holds Zuri dead in his arms, and is grateful for the blockers in his system. At least N’Jadaka really does not know what he does, at least M’Baku will not know what he lost. Shuri screams, his mother screams, and his Alpha throws him over the edge of Warrior Falls.

“You were wrong. All of you were wrong!” The tears that run down his face don’t feel like a dream. “I cannot stay here. I have to go back.”

His family is around him as he jerks back into life, and he loses himself in their embrace for a long moment. Then his eyes are drawn up, and his heart skips a beat.

_You saved me._

He could reveal the truth to M’Baku now. It would secure the Jabari’s support, it would obligate M’Baku to help him. Somewhere in Birnin Zana, N’Jadaka is burning with enough hatred to set a whole world on fire, and it’s T’Challa’s duty to prevent it at all costs. But the idea to force M’Baku to fight for him, to force his Alphas to fight _each other_ , sickens him to the core. He cannot do it. It has to be M’Baku’s choice.

M’Baku grants his mother asylum and then narrows his eyes at him.

“Why do you look at me like that?”

T’Challa gives him a faint smile and withholds an answer.

The battle of mount Bashenga is brutal. They win, with costs. T’Challa stabs his Alpha in the chest, and brings him up from the mines as the sun sets.

“Death is better than bondage,” N’Jadaka says and reaches for the blade in his chest.

T’Challa prevents him with a growl.

“You _will not_ die today.”

His mate looks at T’Challa, confused, questioning. T’Challa carries him to the nearest talon airship and brings him to Birnin Zana, and with all authority that he has, orders the healers to do everything. Then he goes to Shuri.

“No.”

“Sister, please. He is our cousin. We cannot fail him again.”

“He threw you-” she chokes and grabs his hand, tight. “He killed you. I watched him kill you. You cannot ask me to do this.”

T’Challa sinks to his knees before her. “Please.” He collects his voice, and says it.

“He is my mate.”

Shuri is quiet for a long moment, then she tugs on his hand.

“Come on.”

N’Jadaka lives. The hospital is filled over capacity, something that has never happened in Wakanda before. T’Challa makes notes and amends to contingency plans, because this cannot happen again. No one but Zuri was killed, though. It turns out that Wakandans will fight, but are hesitant to kill their own.

There are only four Jabari warriors in serious need of treatment, and T’Challa visits each of them personally. It’s how he finds M’Baku, unimpressed by the holograms as he listens to the physician’s explanations about his people’s health. T’Challa keeps in the background until they are done.

“The people of Wakanda owe the Jabari a great debt.”

M’Baku grunts, and then freezes, turns a corner and walks rapidly. T’Challa is startled, until he realizes that he knows whose room is at the end of this hallway.

“Let him through,” He says to the Dora Milaje that guard the door with crossed spears, and hopes his voice sounds somehow normal.

N’Jadaka breathes heavily, sitting up in his bed, clutching his wound, as he stares at the door. M’Baku is at his side in an instant, foreheads pressed together, as they embrace each other.

One, _one_ long look, forever imprinted into his mind, is all that T’Challa permits himself, before he turns and leaves.


	2. in which T'Challa tries his best

The news spread like fire through the dry savannah. The Jabari Chief and the lost Prince, Alpha mates. T’Challa knows it is useless, but he still hides in the farthest study of the palace to do paperwork. Shuri finds him early in the afternoon.

“Anything you would like to tell me, brother?”

T’Challa buries his face in his hands, and his shoulders sag, because at least someone knows now. Shuri sighs, and sits down on his desk, takes out some kind of device and scans the skin of his wrists with it.

“What’s that?” T’Challa asks.

“A new prototype. Drawing blood was yesterday.” She smiles at him, and he holds on to it tightly. No matter what else happens, no matter how badly he screws up in his future, he will always have this, his little sister’s smile as she shows him a new invention.

_N’Jadaka almost killed her._

“So far it looks good, you still have the full dose of blockers in your system. I think if we…”

T’Challa doesn’t notice his own tears until Shuri makes a distressed noise and draws him into a tight hug.

“It’s going to be okay, brother. I promise you.”

He is the one who should be protecting her, comforting her. It’s another layer of guilt on his heart, but he can’t let go of her yet. The library’s door opens, and Okoye and Nakia step into the room.

“My King-”

Okoye starts, sees him and stops, stiffens. Nakia is quicker to react. She joins the hug, and kisses T’Challa on the forehead.

“What happened?”

“Tell them,” Shuri urges him softly.

So he does.

By the end of it, Nakia’s hand is over her mouth in shock, and Okoye’s grip on her spear is white-knuckled tight. She approaches and kneels down in front of him.

“My King. Forgive me. I should have never- he had no right to fight you for the throne.”

It’s an old, mostly insignificant law, that has not had need of enforcement in almost a millennium, but she is right. An heir to the throne may be challenged by all but their true mates, for how could that ever be a fair fight? In hindsight, it makes both fights at Warrior Falls even more his fault. If he had told- he should have found a way out.

“Why didn’t you say something?” There is no accusation in Nakia’s tone, only empathy.

“They both hate me. They hated me from the moment they saw me, and they are justified in it.”

Okoye growls, and Nakia and Shuri exchange a glance.

“That is an absurd amount of self-blame, even for you, brother,” Shuri says.

“You need to tell them,” Nakia adds softly.

“After everything that happened, how can I?” T’Challa asks.

“You will go into a bonding heat as soon as the blockers wear off,” Shuri cautions. “No amount of suppressants will help you then.”

“You have touched both of them,” Nakia agrees. “The bond has had ample opportunity to form. You must tell them.”

“I still have three more weeks on the blockers,” T’Challa replies. “I want- I need some time, to think about how to best approach this. And N’Jadaka deserves some time to find his place here, first.”

“N’Jadaka deserves a good beating and then a therapist,” Nakia says bluntly. Shuri snorts, and even Okoye’s lips twitch, before she speaks:

“I agree with you, my King. Some caution is warranted here. Both your mates had ambitions to the throne, and I will not allow a situation where you have to fight either of them, again.”

“I really don’t envy you, brother, no matter how this turns out,” Shuri says.

“That is unwarranted.” T’Challa clears his throat and frowns at his little sister. “Yes, there are problems to be solved, but both of my mates are good men, in their own right. And accomplished warriors.”

Handsome, too, definitely, and strong-willed, both of them ready to challenge him in their own way, and-

“That’s not what I was talking about.” Shuri smirks at him.

“What were you talking about?”

“You are going to have to tell Mother.”

Nakia pats his back comfortingly, Shuri looks at him with pity, and even Okoye looks distinctly uncomfortable.

_Bast save me. I think I might be cursed._

Okoye’s kimoyo beads give a ping, and Ayo’s worried face materializes. “General, is the King with you?”

“Yes, Ayo. What happened?”

“There is a- problem. With the Prince.”

T’Challa is on his feet, all but running through the hallways before he knows it. He manages to regain control of his expression just before he steps into the council room, and that control is tested immediately.

Because he comes to find N’Jadaka, hurling a chair at M’Baku, which the latter shatters methodically with his club as he advances on the other Alpha. The Dora Milaje assigned to N’Jadaka, as well as M’Baku’s own guards, stand in a loose circle, with tense looks on their faces. Alpha fights in new-mated pairs are not unheard of. Having a fight between the Chief of a Tribe and a Lost Prince puts a bit of a strain on it, though.

“Enough!” T’Challa calls loudly.

“Sup, cuz,” N’Jadaka says as he ducks under M’Baku’s next swing and swoops a kick to the other Alpha’s legs. M’Baku simply shifts his balance, and directs his club in a new direction with an elegant curve, which is the moment T’Challa recognizes the small blade hidden in N’Jadaka’s left hand, and he moves in between them automatically. There is literally no other course of action in his mind. He catches M’Baku’s club inches before it hits his head, N’Jadaka’s blade as it uselessly glides off Shuri’s design.

“I said, _enough_ ,” He growls, because he can’t help it. That kind of casual violence between his mates is so hurtful to watch, he’d rather jump off the cliff of Warrior Falls again.

“Step apart.” Okoye moves in behind his right with her spear, tone sharp, and M’Baku takes a step away.

Nakia is on his other side, one ring blade loose in hand as she pushes N’Jadaka back.

His mates comply, _Thank Bast_ , and T’Challa allows himself to relax minutely.

“Can the both of you hold a civil conversation right now?”

“We were having a conversation until you interrupted,” N’Jadaka sneers.

T’Challa looks at M’Baku, and gets a begrudging jerk of his head. That has to be good enough.

“I would talk to those two alone,” He addresses the room at large. “Leave us.”

He catches Shuri’s widened eyes and shakes his head ever so slightly. Okoye gives him a troubled glare, and Nakia a small smile of encouragement, and then the room is clear. T’Challa allows himself to breathe, three times, before he focuses his attention on the two Alphas. They are both watching him, and resolutely ignoring each other.

“I was afraid this would happen when I learned of your mateship.”

“I will replace your tasteless furniture with even bigger, more tasteless furniture,” M’Baku says tartly. “You need not worry about your precious council seats.”

“Those seats were antiques,” T’Challa says with raised eyebrows. “But they are not my source of concern. I am not about to send you a bill for property damage.”

“Then what do you want from us?” N’Jadaka says sharply.

So there is an _us_. There’s hope yet. T’Challa clears his throat.

“A true mateship is a gift of Bast. Both of you were made for each other, no matter how unlikely it seems when you fight about your ideals.”

They look caught, both of them in their own way. M’Baku clenches his jaw and purposefully stares straight ahead, while N’Jadaka glares at him like he can set T’Challa on fire by willpower alone.

“M’Baku is chief of his people and beholden to their protection above all. N’Jadaka has made it his goal in life to help the oppressed around the Globe with Wakandan technology. I can see how you would clash, as soon as there is a course of action to be decided on.”

“I am _not_ ,” N’Jadaka says with bared teeth “Spending the rest of my life sitting idle on some backwater mountain!”

“You ask me to risk my warriors, again, for people who are not our own, and I cannot let you do that. It is my duty-”

“It is your goddamn duty to do something! I swear to god, this entire fucking nation-”

“Stop.”

T’Challa says it quietly, but this time they both hear him immediately.

“N’Jadaka, you-”

“You don’t get to call me that,” His cousin tells him venomously. “For your purposes, my name’s Erik.”

T’Challa inclines his head, and quiets the sting in his heart at the words.

“Erik. You will not have to spend the rest of your life idle, if you don’t want to. Your approach was misguided, but I feel in my heart that your motivations were true.”

Erik stares at him. It feels like he really sees T’Challa for the first time, and it gives T’Challa enough courage to continue on.

“I plan to open Wakanda’s resources to the people who need aid, on this continent and the rest of the world. The outreach program will be coordinated by my sister and Nakia, and when the time comes, there will be a place for you. Besides that, I encourage you to visit Jabariland before you insult your mate’s home. It is a beautiful place.”

Erik does not answer him, so T’Challa turns to the other Alpha, who is watching him with consideration.

“Chief M’Baku, please be patient with my cousin. He has been wronged many times, by my family as well as by the society that raised him.”

“Fuck you.”

“When we discuss the outreach program in the council, I would have you here, to have the Jabari’s voice heard, in that matter as well as all others, going forward.” He swallows, and then forces a small smile. “So, if you really would like to replace the seats, I would be glad if you would send one extra.”

The silence that falls after he has spoken hangs in the air between him and his mates, and right then, T’Challa almost, almost says it.

_I’m your mate. I’m your Omega. I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours._

He keeps it together, barely, straightens his shoulders and nods at both of them once. “Zuri’s funeral will be tomorrow at noon. The first council meeting will be held afterwards. I would be glad to see both of you there.”

He turns and leaves, and tells himself that he does not feel their eyes follow him as he walks through the door.


	3. where some talking is done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is this Chapter from M'Baku's POV.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875880)

"My son." His mother's tone is low but urgent. " _He_ should _not_ be here!"

"I have a good reason for it, Mother," T'Challa replies, just as low and earnest. "I promise you that."

"What reason is good enough to have Zuri's murderer at his funeral?"

"I believe that Zuri would have wanted him here."

"What are you not telling me?"

"I promise, I will tell you tonight. There is much that we must talk about."

She looks troubled, but a lifetime as queen has made his mother's regal composure second nature. She gives him a curt nod, and then they walk side by side, to the head of the funeral procession.

Zuri was the High Priest of Bast, and loved well by his people. World-wise and kind, he had been the most adept at bringing together true mates.

His successor holds a beautiful ceremony. Afterwards, the Royal family as well as the Tribal leaders step aside as the people of Wakanda proceed to put flowers on and around Zuri's grave. T'Challa watches his mates surreptously throughout. Erik's face bears his conflict openly before the ever growing sea of blossoms. It takes several hours until the main group of mourners has passed. More will come, when shifts change and those from further away find time.

T'Challa lets everyone willing pass before him to place their offerings. His mother, Shuri and Nakia each offer silently to stay with him, and he declines them all. Okoye stubbornly refuses to look at him so he can gesture for her to leave, and he finds himself out of energy to refuse her protectiveness. Besides, he's not completely alone yet, so to have her stay is the smarter option.

"Never figured drums could sound sad before today," Erik says as he quietly steps beside him.

"There's a lot you still have to learn."

"I remember him. When I think about it. Uncle James. He picked me up from school and helped me with math homework."

"He refused to look for his own mate. We never understood it. Until we learned about you." T'Challa looks at Erik. "He carried his guilt over leaving you through his whole life."

"I'm not sorry."

"I think he would forgive you regardless."

"That whack of a guy, huh. He's dead. Doesn't matter anymore."

"You drank the heart-shaped herb. You know that isn't true."

Erik stares at him.

"That was a fucking dream."

"Did they not tell you- were you not instructed in the use of the herb?"

Erik opens his mouth, closes it again, and chuckles, bitter.

"Wasn't exactly, in the most attentive state of mind."

T'Challa can only imagine.

"Do you need something?" He asks, because he can't not. Erik is his mate, T'Challa's to take care of. "Anything you want, you need only ask. You are a prince."

"Thanks, but Chief's got me covered pretty well." Erik smirks, and T'Challa ignores the twist of longing in his heart. "Though, there's one thing." 

_Anything you want._

"How can I be of help?"

"I'd like some literature on Wakandan courtship. M'Baku's been giving me gifts, and he won't tell me, but I got the feeling there's supposed to be an exchange."

"There is." T'Challa nods. "Though some of the Jabari's customs differ. But I think I know where to point you. To get started."

"You actually like me, don't you." Erik stares at him with sharp brown eyes. "Maybe have your sister check out that head of yours. You might have hit a rock when I threw you off that cliff."

"I did," T'Challa says wryly, and ignores the secret, inner part of him that's screaming.

His reply startles a huff of breath out of Erik, an almost-laugh that gives T'Challa's heart unexpected light.

Footsteps approach, and they both turn to M'Baku. The Chief of the Jabari scans Erik's stance and expression for the fracture of a second, then gives T'Challa a nod.

"Looks like the hubby's ready to leave."

"We may stay as long as you like, _ifemi"_

It's an honour and a sign of trust to witness this, and T'Challa quietly admonishes himself for the sensation of blunt knives carving out his heart.

“Your mate is right. Take all the time you need. If you will excuse me, I have to prepare for the council meeting.”

“How much trouble am I in, exactly? And how much trouble is it gonna make for M’Baku?”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” M’Baku says, stubborn as a piece of Jabari wood.

T’Challa sighs. “I won’t lie to you, today will not be a pleasant meeting. I ask that you trust me. Both of you.”

“Trust you,” Erik says, disbelief coloring his voice.

“I saved you.” T’Challa meets his eyes in challenge, and then looks at M’Baku. “I spared both of your lives. I won’t see those efforts go to waste. _Yes_ , on that, I ask that you trust me.”

“Alright.” Erik throws up his hands. “You’re something else, you know that?”

T’Challa doesn’t grace him with a reply. Instead he turns and walks away, and neither of his mates keeps him back.

Okoye falls in step beside him, with a low growl.

“I will bash their heads together until they treat you with the respect that you deserve.”

“M’Baku was perfectly polite.”

“M’Baku does not know how _not_ to disrespect the Golden Tribe. And the American is even worse.”

“Erik was not raised at court. And it doesn’t bother me.”

“I will skewer them.”

“I’m the one who is at fault here, Okoye.”

She doesn’t say anything to that. Not until they’re in the Talon, at least.

“My King- T’Challa.” She hesitates, but only for a moment. “To see you with them, to see you hurting, it is agonizing to watch.”

“I’m sorry, Okoye.”

“This is not meant to be a reproach against the decision you made. I am not speaking as your guard, but as a friend who cares about you deeply. Please don’t hurt yourself over this.”

She’s never done this before, never expressed her regard of their friendship so openly. T’Challa doesn’t attempt to hide his surprise.

Then he crosses his arms in respect.

“Thank you, Okoye.”

“My King.”

She returns the gesture with a little smile, and then goes to fly them home.

The council meeting starts bad, and gets worse.

“This usurper killed Zuri!”

“He assumed the King’s position while the battle was not yet ended, and endangered our nation’s secret in front of the entire world!”

“And now he is mated to a Jabari, no less! He destroyed the sacred garden, he desecrated-”

To his credit, Erik takes it stoically. He sits next to M’Baku, who makes it his business to look about as unimpressed as humanly possible.

“Are you done?” T’Challa asks when the stream of accusations ends.

“Who will guarantee us that he does not make another attempt at the throne?” The Border Tribe Elder says. “We do not want him as our King!”

“He can’t,” Shuri says, with a big smile. “There is an old law that prevents it.”

“What?” The River Tribe Elder looks at her, startled. For all her genius, Shuri is aware of her own age, and doesn’t speak in the council often when she sits in. She takes center stage easily though.

“While you were all busy wringing your hands, I did my research. There is an old mateship law that makes N’Jadaka’s claim to a duel void.”

T’Challa’s heart actually freezes in his chest. Then his sister winks at him.

“Chief M’Baku was already defeated by my brother. A chief’s mate may take up combat in stead of his mate, but they may not take up the battle after the Chief has been defeated.” With an elegant handwave, she distributes her holographic findings around the room. “It’s a bit obscure, and has not been used in four-hundred years, but it is a law.”

One of T’Challa’s tutors in history and law used to tell him that with enough time and a good search engine, any legal argument could be made in Wakanda. For all that their ways change more slowly than the rest of the world, they have several thousand years of unbroken written records, and laws from every era. The most important thing, his teacher used to say, is to present your findings with a winning smile.

Shuri certainly has that last part down, even if her grin turns sly when she looks at her brother.

_I suppose I deserve this._

“Are you all satisfied with this?” She challenges.

“It does not remove him from the line of succession,” The River Tribe Elder says.

“He is sitting right here,” M’Baku reminds them darkly, and Erik looks at him with a half smirk and a shrug.

“Well, maybe my brother will think of a solution for that problem. All must not be solved within a day, no?” Shuri says.

_I hate you_ , T’Challa mouths silently at her.

_You owe me_ she replies smugly in the same manner, before she goes to retake her seat beside their mother.

“There is still the matter of his punishment to discuss,” The Mining Tribe Elder says. “He killed one of our own.”

“And he will atone for that by serving Wakanda in the future. It is what Zuri would have wanted.”

“My King, you are too lenient on him,” The Merchant Tribe Elder says with disdain. “No matter what his blood may be, he is a stranger, with no respect for our way of life.”

“Respect can be learned. And his blood means he has a right to his heritage.”

“Still, do you not think-”

“This is _not_ up for discussion,” T’Challa says emphatically. “I am the Chief of the Golden Tribe, and it falls to me to administer Prince N’Jadaka’s punishment. If any of you have grievances with him, you bring them to me. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my King.”

“So, that’s something he can do?” Erik crosses his eyes and leans back.

“He is the King,” M’Baku replies, with an ever so faint note of acknowledging, grudging respect. It’s good enough for T’Challa.

“If this topic is over, can we move on, please?” Shuri says, because she is not quite as terrible as she pretends to be.

“I second that,” Nakia says from her father’s side, because she is an actual angel sent by Bast.

“We need to discuss the reinforcement of the Border Tribe’s outposts and the installation of new shields,” Okoye follows through seamlessly.

“Why will that be necessary?” The Mining Tribe’s Elder asks. “Have we not already…”

“Your people have no actual idea of the effort that goes into…”

“And I am sure you would like to put all of our technology into…”

T’Challa sighs, ever so softly, and braces himself for a very long afternoon.

It turns into a long evening, before they manage to find an adequate compromise, and when he stumbles into his parent’s- into his mother’s living room, he lets himself fall face-down on the couch.

Shuri sits down next to him and strokes his head.

“My poor, kingly brother.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see you playing on your kimoyo beads when Okoye presented the statistics,” T’Challa says into the couch.

“I already know the statistics. You already knew them, too. Everyone who cares for the topic has already seen them, and those who don’t care won’t change their minds after the fifth presentation.”

“Shuri, be nice to your brother.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Their mother brings a tray of steaming tea to the couch table, and then sits down on the loveseat she used to share with their father. T’Challa can still picture them, young and in love, the epitome of what a mateship should be, when he played on this carpet as a boy.

“So, my son. What did you want to tell me?”

His mother sits back, listens, and doesn’t say anything for a very long time. Finally, she sighs.

“I will need some time to come to terms with this.”

“I know. I’m sorry, mother.”

“My son, you have nothing to be apologize for.” She stands up, takes his face in her hands, and kisses his forehead. “You will find the way that is right for you, and your –mates. I know that you will.”

T’Challa swallows heavily, and prays to Bast that she is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, your comments give me life. I read each and every one several times, cackling throughout. Thank you so much!


	4. days and nights of a fumbling king

He spends the next days in and out of meetings with all the elders, or communicating with their War Dogs stationed around the world, Nakia at his side. They cannot take any risk on the success or the safety of the outreach program, and there is a UN meeting in six weeks, the best opportunity they will get to announce it within the next year.

One afternoon, five days after the council meeting, while he is looking through reports from the Mining Tribe’s development department, Ayo’s face materializes on his desk.

“My King, please pardon the disturbance. The Border Tribe’s heir is here. Should I tell him that you are busy?”

“No. Send him in.”

T’Challa sighs, and gets up from his desk to meet W’Kabi as he steps through the door. His friend greets him formally, with a bow and crossed arms, his whole body tense. T’Challa returns the gesture, and tries to find something to say. Anything, really.

“My King. I came to ask- I came to tell you that I am sorry.”

“W’Kabi, please. Look at me,” T’Challa says. “I will say this truthfully to you. Your actions hurt me, and they cost Wakanda dearly. But there has been no irreparable damage done, and I know that you were grieving for your parents. I am sorry, too.”

W’Kabi finally meets his eyes, and T’Challa swallows heavily. “I broke my promise to you. You needed closure on Klaue, and I failed you.”

“You really think that warrants- you really think I care about that now?”

“You did then, and that was enough.”

“I was consumed by rage. N’Jadaka spoke of justice, of erasing people like Klaue from the world, and I thought if we succeeded, nobody else would have to suffer like I did as a child. I was blind.” There are tears in his friend’s eyes and T’Challa aches to comfort him, but he can’t, yet. These things need to be said.

“T’Challa, I charged at Okoye. I almost killed her. I almost killed my mate.” W’Kabi’s voice breaks, and he sinks to his knees. “And that isn’t my worst crime. I betrayed you, when I should have been loyal. I am a traitor.”

“You are forgiven,” T’Challa says gently.

“No! You must punish me, my King. I can’t bear- I cannot stand to look at myself in the mirror!”

“No punishment I could give you could be worse than what you are feeling. W’Kabi, _stand up_.”

T’Challa holds out his hand expectantly, and after he stares at it for a long moment, W’Kabi takes it. T’Challa pulls him up, into a tight hug, and doesn’t let go.

“I don’t deserve this.”

“You made a mistake. You are not alone in that, I promise you.”

W’Kabi takes half a step back from the hug, eyes still red. “Just like that. I don’t believe that this can be over just like that.”

“It will take time to heal. Like all things,” T’Challa says quietly. “But you have never lost my friendship.”

W’Kabi gives him a faint smile. “My beloved said that.”

“Your mate is a very wise woman.”

“My mate kicked my ass on the sparring mat until I gave her my word to go to you.”

“Like I said.”

W’Kabi laughs softly. “She told me of your plans. How can I help?”

“Come. I will show you.”

T’Challa and W’Kabi spend the rest of the afternoon discussing his plans, and then W’Kabi invites him for dinner for the next day. Done with the day’s work, T’Challa changes out of his heavy robes, into a light shirt and loose pants, and goes for a walk outside. He makes a point to have his early morning run around Birnin Zana every day, but after being then confined to his office for more than twelve hours, he is ready to spend some time in the quiet nature of the Royal Gardens.

He dismisses his Dora Milaje guard with a smile, and takes a deep breath of the gorgeous scents around him. His feet carry him on his own, until he comes to a small pond that is overflowing with white water lilies, and he realizes that he is not alone after all. M’Baku sits in the soft grass, legs crossed, and though T’Challa’s steps are inaudible, he looks up.

“Forgive me,” T’Challa says softly. “I did not mean to disturb your meditation.”

“You don’t bother me,” M’Baku gives back. “Take a seat if you want to.”

So T’Challa does, a respectful distance away from the Alpha, crossing his own legs. The evening air is cool around them, and with half-closed eyes, the Lillie’s white becomes a blanket. M’Baku misses the snow.

“Are you happy with your accommodations here?” T’Challa asks.

“They are entirely appropriate. I cannot find any fault in them, your majesty.”

“Please, call me T’Challa,” He says it before he has completely thought it through, but there is no taking back the words. “You saved my life, and you are my cousin’s mate. There is no need for formality.”

M’Baku looks at him oddly, and nods cautiously.

“In either case, the rooms you have provided are fine.”

“But you don’t like them,” T’Challa says.

“I don’t have to like them. They serve as a place to eat, and to sleep, and N’Jadaka is close to his family, where he should be.”

“There is a house, a bit outside of the city to the south. It was built by my great uncle for his mates from the Mining Tribe, who missed the mountains.” T’Challa clears his throat. “It is close enough to the city that you could be here within ten minutes, but far enough to avoid the noise and the traffic. It’s in higher altitude as well.”

“I am doing just fine right now.”

“I’ll have it made ready for both of you,” T’Challa replies. “I would like to have you and Erik around in the future. Providing a home that fits both of your needs is my duty as your King, and the Chief of Erik’s tribe.”

_And your mate._

“You don’t need to do that.”

T’Challa really, truly does, but that is not a reply he can give right now.

“I want to.”

“I will have to return to Jabariland soon for some days, anyways,” M’Baku says. “My people will not let themselves be governed remotely.”

“An airship will be provided, of course.”

“No, thank you.”

“A talon can bring you home within two hours.” _And back here just as quickly._

“I don’t want your charitable technology.”

“It’s your right as a member of the council.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” M’Baku says, irritated.

T’Challa laughs softly. “I wish I had.”

M’Baku rolls his eyes, and strangely enough, that makes T’Challa happy. They sit in peaceful quiet until the sun has sunken below the horizon, red glow slowly fading into blue above the treetops. When M’Baku gets up, T’Challa rises as well, and they walk back to the palace side by side.

“Good night, Chief M’Baku.”

“It’s M’Baku. Good night, T’Challa.”

It’s not something he will soon forget, the sound of his mate, saying his name, with guarded kindness, even.

When T’Challa comes to his rooms, he ignores the two pings that his kimoyo beads give, one from Nakia, one from Shuri. Both of them have been giving him increasingly urgent glances, and it won’t be long until they try to talk him into something he is not ready for. It is not something he wants to deal with tonight, so he goes to bed right away.

 

 

_Purple starlit sky stretches into infinity above the grasslands. The Panther stretches, yawns, and scents the sweet air. Others greet him, and he nods at them, but he has somewhere to be, so he leaves the big tree._

_The grasslands are an endless twilight, soft ground, dotted with dew. There is an unreasonably large house in the distance, and the Panther approaches it, curious. It’s ugly, but the door swings open, and the Panther steps inside. It smells dusty, dirty inside, but there is another scent. It leads up the stairs, up, and then into a hallway, to a door. He presses his forehead against the door, and it gives, reluctantly. The small flat smells like spices, coconut, sandalwood and burnt matches._

_“Here kitty.”_

_The man sits on the floor, legs spread, back against the wall, head tilted, as he beckons with his hand. The Panther approaches him confidently, rubs his face against the Alpha’s neck, and purrs. The man’s hands caress his neck, fingers burying in silken fur._

_“How’d ya find me, huh?”_

_That is a rather silly question, the Panther feels. He is an excellent hunter. Of course he would find both his mates, no matter where they get lost. But, it is time to leave now, so the Panther takes the arm of the man’s hoodie between his teeth, gentle enough, and pulls._

_“Whoa, what’re you- alright, kitty. I’m comin’, I’m comin.”_

_His mate seems confused when they step into the hallway, but the Panther purrs and leads the way, and his mate stays by his side. They step into the clean air of outside, and the man sucks in a breath._

_“Whoa.”_

_The Panther nudges the man’s thigh impatiently, and when he doesn’t comply immediately, the Panther sprints ahead. They have another mate to find, after all. Steps, soft as wind, follow him, and with only a growl of warning, the Jaguar tackles him. The Panther rolls off the playful attack and hisses in annoyance, but his mate purrs, deep and smug as he comes up to rub against the Panther, mark him with his scent. The Panther allows it, leans into the caress for a moment, before he nips at the Jaguar's ear and darts off into the grass._

_The chase is on, and they lose themselves in the joy of running, the stretch of muscles. The mountains on the edge of the horizons zoom in, and the ground becomes more rocky, the air a little sharper, as the ascent increases. The treeline rises before them like a wall._

_The Jaguar calls out a low growl to the Panther, as an enormous, silver-white Gorilla steps out of the forest. The Gorilla eyes the cats for a long moment. Then he turns and walks back into the trees. Around him, it seems like the vegetation makes way, respectfully. As it should, for the god of this forest. The Panther swishes his tail with excitement, and follows the Gorilla in a respectful distance. The Jaguar guards his back, hackles raised on high alert._

_Their way leads ever up the side of the mountain, until the trees part before them into a clearing. The white Gorilla is nowhere in sight, but another man is sitting on the edge of a clear pond, fishing in the serene water. He looks at the two cats, startled recognition in his eyes, and the Panther walks up to him and deposits himself across his lap, satisfied. His Alpha sighs, and puts the fishing rod down so he can dedicate both hands to caressing the Panther’s back, which the Panther feels is only proper. He brought their other mate here, after all._

_“Hey Chief.”_

_“Hello, olufẹ. I am glad to see you.”_

_“Yeah. Our kitten here showed me the way.”_

_“Did he now. Thank_ _you,_ _ômô ológbò._ _”_

_His Jaguar mate sits down close to them, and laughs when the Panther wriggles until he is stretched across as much of their laps as possible. Satisfied, the Panther closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation of their touch that lulls him to sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the interest of fairness, I will add the tag Slow Burn to this fic. I'd say I'm sorry, but that would be a polite lie. I hope y'all enjoyed the chapter!


	5. in which Brunch seems like a really good idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sat on this couch in my batman bathrobe for most of the last hour, sipping tea and smiling at your comments. I can't even express how happy you all make me.
> 
> But I'm still not sorry.  
> Enjoy!

T'Challa wakes, goes for his run in the cool, early morning, and doesn't notice his own smile until he looks into the mirror while he shaves. There is a pleasant feeling still tingling in the relaxed muscles of his shoulders, down his back, and a notion of something important that eludes him.

_I have forgotten something, haven't I?_

His kimoyo beads give an insistent ping to determine that his day is about to start, and with a sigh, he answers both Nakia's and Shuri's requests for a meeting with set times.

Okoye awaits him instead of Ayo at his office, and T'Challa gives her an unsurprised look.

"General. Do you not have other duties to attend to today?"

"My first duty is always to your protection, my King."

"Why don't you accompany me to the library, to my meeting with Nakia. You both have the same topic in mind."

She gives him a curt nod of agreement, and falls in step next to him. The Royal Library is open for all employees of the Palace, including Guards, Engineers, War Dogs and Diplomats. It presents one of the most attractive benefits of working for the Golden Tribe, and is a well-visited place later in the day. Not at six in the morning, though.

Nakia is already there, in front of the sections in foreign languages, thumbing through a volume in Swahili with interest. She looks up when they approach and puts the book aside to cross her arms into the formal greeting.

"My King. General."

"How bad is this going to be if you start off like that," T'Challa says dryly.

Nakia lifts her eyebrows. "Well, you have been avoiding this, so it is really on you."

"When do you plan to tell M'Baku and N'Jadaka that you are their mate?" Okoye asks. "You have been putting this off constantly!"

"And with good reason," T'Challa says, shoulders tensing. "Erik is still adjusting to our culture and technology, and M'Baku has to balance his duties as a chief with his need to be in Birnin Zana. I can wait a bit longer until they have it figured out."

"By that logic, it will never be the right time," Nakia says firmly. "T'Challa, you have to make a-"

There is a thump and a muttered "Ouch!", and all three of them still. They have been overheard.

Okoye moves like a deadly shadow. There's a _twack_ , a yelp, and then she drags Everett Ross around the corner by the collar of his shirt.

The Omega's hair is tousled, dark rings under his eyes, and there is an imprint of the knitting pattern of his shirt on his cheek. He blinks at T'Challa with the look of someone going from dazed to wide awake in an instant.

"How much of that did you overhear?" Okoye threatens.

"And how did you get in here?" Nakia asks. "The guard at the door affirmed the library was empty."

Ross flushes. "I, er, I fell asleep reading."

Okoye's eyes narrow, rightfully so. This means the guards were sloppy at the shift change.

"The Princess gave me permission to see the library, and it's really- this place is amazing."

"You heard everything we said, didn't you," T'Challa says tiredly.

Ross pauses, opens his mouth, closes it, and sighs.

"The gist of it. Your talk woke me, actually. But you don't need to threaten me," He says with a glance at Okoye. "I'll keep my mouth shut. Loyalty among Omegas, and all that."

"Who told you of our King's status?" Okoye asks sharply.

"Nobody. Even the agency is still waiting for actual confirmation."

"Then why are you so certain?" T'Challa asks.

"Um, for one, your General just confirmed it." The small man gives Okoye a wry smile, and is rewarded with a death glare. "Besides, I've always been pretty good at judging status based on mannerisms, what with the blockers and all that. Though I'll admit that Wakandans are much harder than, well, everyone from everywhere else, basically."

"Why would blockers prevent you from scenting someone?" T'Challa asks, confused.

Nakia makes an angry noise in her throat. "American blockers. They're unsafe, and the necessary dose to be effective is incredibly unhealthy."

"Well." Ross shrugs, sardonic. "As Omegas are a largely non-working population with little demand for them, there's not much money to be made."

"Why anyone would choose to take that poison is beyond me," Okoye growls.

"It was that or be mated off at fifteen, to have five kids by the time I'd been twenty, and spend the rest of my life doing everyone's laundry," Ross gives back easily. "Considering I just found a three hundred year old comparative dossier on the weaponless martial arts of East Asia, I'm actually pretty confident in my choice."

His reply leaves Okoye staring, which is a feat in and of itself.

“In any case, I would be obliged if you could keep the knowledge about my mateship to yourself. I am on scent-blockers, and they do not yet know what we are to each other.”

“You have my word, your majesty. And not just because your General is looking like she is ready to break every bone in my body.”

“Please don’t take that personally,” T’Challa says.

“She does it to most people,” Nakia agrees. “Agent Ross, if I may ask, what are you still doing here? You are welcome, of course, but do you not have a job to return to?”

“Ah, yeah, I was wondering when that question would come.” Ross smiles at them brightly. “It will please you to hear that I have been fired from the CIA effective immediately.”

“What?” Nakia asks sharply.

Ross shrugs. “They’ve been looking for a way to get rid of me for a while. I think they never meant to promote me to Special Agent in the first place. After the deal with Klaue blew up…” He tilts his head. “You probably want me to leave, right? Can I have one more day in here?”

“You’re staying,” T’Challa says. “You saved Nakia’s life, helped protect my mother and sister, and risked your life preventing our weapons from being sent out around the world.” He exchanges a glance with Nakia, who nods, and Okoye, whose lips are pursed, but who isn’t side-eyeing him.

“In fact, I think I have been remiss in my duty as your host.”

“From what I gather you have a lot on your plate, your majesty,” Ross says. “Your sister has been very kind. She invited me into her workshop three times, and only almost electrocuted me once.”

“It’s how she shows affection,” Nakia says.

“The invitation or the high voltage?”

T’Challa’s kimoyo beads make a noise, and when he lifts his arm, his heart skips a beat, because the face that rises from the small projection is Erik’s. Hair untidy, squinting, his voice raspy from sleep, his mate asks:

“Is this thing on- T’Challa, can you hear me? See me? Goddamnit-”

“I can hear you, Erik,” T’Challa says, every word carefully measured to be calm, collected, friendly. “How can I help you?”

“Right. So, I was thinking. Could we talk?” Erik hesitates. “You’re probably swamped at the moment, I know-”

“I can meet you around noon. There is something I wanted to show you, in any case.”

“Can I bring my mate?”

“Yes, of course. Meet me at Mount Bashenga. I will send the exact time and place to your kimoyo beads.”

“Great, see you, cuz.”

The transmission closes, and T’Challa finds himself subject of three different flavors of unimpressed stares.

“You really don’t have any time in your schedule at all today,” Nakia points out.

“I will simply do the report for the Talon Squadrons before I go to bed.”

“It’s your funeral,” Nakia says.

“Do _not_ skip out on tonight’s dinner,” Okoye adds.

“I won’t, you have my word.”

“Both of you should come, too, while we are at this,” Okoye says to Nakia and Ross.

The American in question blinks in surprise. “Er. Sorry. Did you just invite me to a thing?”

“It is a friendly get-together,” Okoye replies, in a notably unfriendly tone. “As I understand, the King, Nakia and yourself are friends, are you not?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Then you will arrive at our house at eight sharp. Do not be late.”

Ross looks maximally bewildered, but not intimidated, so T’Challa lets Okoye have her very weird, disconcerting idea of fun and instead turns to Nakia to go over the actual reason for this meeting, a list of suitable candidates to lead the outreach centers in South-America.

After they are done, Okoye hands guard duty back to Ayo to oversee the training of some new recruits, while T’Challa meets first with a representative from the northern River Tribe and then a delegation of Birnin Zana’s textile workers. Before he knows it, the Dora Milaje are herding him into a talon, where a small lunch waits for him by the passenger seats.

“Thank you, Ayo.”

“You forget to eat far too often, my King,” His guard says over her shoulder from the pilot’s seat. “If we do not arrange your meals, someone is bound to tell the Queen Mother that you are not eating enough.”

“Bast save us,” He mumbles.

“Enjoy your meal, my King.”

An hour before he is to meet with Erik and M’Baku, T’Challa steps into his little sister’s lab. Shuri claimed this place as her own from the moment she could walk, and roughly fourteen years later, from the lights, the music that moves the air, the murals on the walls, to the very beams that carry this space, there is nothing that has not got her touch imprinted on it.

T’Challa still remembers the afternoon the entire Palace was in an uproar because the four-year old princess was missing. He had skipped the warrior’s training, not that anyone cared, and snuck past the assembling guards and panicked Dora Milaje to find the smallest hoverbike missing. He had found her in the Vibranium mine, climbing down with determination, legs too short for most ledges, but that didn’t stop her.

She greets him with a smile and a hug now, and T’Challa allows himself to relax ever so slightly.

“Would you also like to admonish me for my waiting?”

“Oh no, I heard from Nakia how it went the first time. On the one hand, I feel for you, but on the other hand your life is better than most Wakandan soap operas.”

“Most?”

“We are a nation that prides itself on its storytelling, are we not?”

She grins at him cheekily and he flicks her ear, which makes her laugh aloud.

“Well then, I am glad to provide a suitable source of gossip for the women in my life.”

“Hmm, yes. Mother is still quite worried, but I think Nakia and Okoye managed to ease her into the idea of two incorrigible hellions for sons-in-law,” Shuri says. “Since you seem determined to draw out the drama, we are all looking for a regular date to have our emotional support meeting. It’s probably going to be brunch, every Saturday.”

“I can’t even tell if you’re joking.”

Shuri snorts, and leads him towards one of her smaller work stations to the side. It features a recent cranial scan overlaid with several different filters, an ongoing feed of brain waves, a wall of text, and a satellite feed of an implanted tracking device.

“How is Sergeant Barnes?”

“So far, he is doing fine, considering his circumstances. He will need a lot more physical therapy, as well as counseling. Should I contact your friends?”

“Has he asked after them?”

“Not as of now, no.”

“Then we should wait,” T’Challa decides. “I trust your decisions.”

“You should,” Shuri says cheerfully, but then she becomes serious again as she summons a file- a coherent curriculum of the Winter Soldier’s kills, over decades, around the globe.

“I cannot even imagine what it must be like. To be cut off from the life he was raised in, and made into a weapon.” Anger colors her tone, and T’Challa’s heart aches a little.

Shuri is young still, and has never been touched by the world’s general ugliness. She isn’t yet viscerally aware of mankind’s capacity for evil, and he wishes he could keep her from that for a little while longer.

It’s no use to try and shelter her, though. T’Challa did not allow his own father to keep him from becoming the Black Panther, and Shuri is more stubborn than he is. She will not be kept from a battle that she wants to fight.

“If anyone can help Sergeant Barnes, I believe it’s you.” He smiles at her gently. “Come now. Show me what else you are working on.”

So she does, and he spends a precious half of an hour with his little sister, until his kimoyo beads give him a reminder.

His mates will arrive shortly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I made a Black Panther playlist without lyrics for writing.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-J5V_WE1nO4GS50vE_z85wCMPgUXPSFq)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Because come on, this movie needs more fic.


	6. where interactions happen

T’Challa meets them on the landing platform at the top of the mountain. M’Baku steps out of the airship first, the slightest twist of his lips the only indication of his disapproval for the mode of transportation. Erik follows after him. For the first time since T’Challa has seen him, he is in a proper, notably Wakandan outfit, with a tunic and pants in the Golden Tribe’s traditional black. He walks with his usual swagger, but there is some tension to his shoulders, and T’Challa thinks this is the most uncomfortable he’s ever seen him.

“Welcome, M’Baku, Erik.”

He greets them with the courteous smile that has been ingrained into him from the moment he was old enough to know what _Prince_ meant.

“I am glad you could meet me here.”

“Thank you for making time for my mate’s concerns,” M’Baku replies seriously. “I’m sure you have a lot to do at the moment.”

“It’s not that bad,” T’Challa says and gestures for them to follow. “Come.”

The temple of Bast is located at the foot of Mount Bashenga, only a ten minute walk away. The Vibranium is strong in the ground here, and it infuses the nature around them. The sandstone pyramid emerges from between the trees, and Erik groans.

“I was wondering why nobody’s called for my head on a pike for that one, yet.”

“Nobody will put your head on a pike,” M’Baku says firmly.

“Indeed, that is not my plan,” T’Challa agrees.

“Then what is?” M’Baku asks. “I think this would be easier on my mate’s mind if you told him what you want to do here.”

“This is not something that is meant to be easy on him,” T’Challa says sternly. “You destroyed something sacred here, cousin.”

“Yeah, and your point?” Erik asks, jaw tense.

“I bring you here today to give you a chance to cope with that action in a meaningful way.”

“Still not explaining anything, cuz.”

“Have I given you reason to mistrust me?”

Erik pauses, and his shoulders tense. “Not yet.”

“Look at me,” T’Challa says quietly and waits for both of the Alphas to comply. “It’s going to be okay. Follow me.”

It still smells like smoke in the inner sanctum of the temple, the ground, pillars and the wooden beams scarred with soot. The priests greet them with cautious politeness, eyeing Erik none too friendly, but this is something his mate will have to put up with for a while longer. The reason T’Challa brought him here is worth the strain.

As they walk on the ancient stone path through the charred flower beds, M’Baku reaches for Erik’s hand. Erik takes it, and T’Challa is relieved to see it. He wishes he could do the same.

In the farthest flowerbed, the High Priestess awaits them, with three more priests and several Acolytes in the background.

“My King. Chief M’Baku, Prince N’Jadaka. Be welcome here.”

All credit to her, she is calm and her expression neutral at least. Or maybe some credit should go to Ayo, to whom T’Challa delegated the task of announcing and preparing this visit.

“Thank you.” T’Challa gestures for Erik, who stopped a few steps behind him. “Come here.”

Erik does, reluctantly, after giving T’Challa a dubious look. His eyes widen ever so slightly when he realizes what he is seeing.

The flowerbed has been cleared of the ashes, and refilled with new earth. In the middle of it, there a two purple flowers, glowing with soft luminescence.

“How?”

“You didn’t think we would grow our magic herb in just one place, without a failsafe, did you?” T’Challa tries a light teasing tone, and is happy to see a faint smile on his mate’s face.

“I guess I didn’t think at all when I- when I did this.”

“Besides that, four of our priests managed to save a fruit. You did not notice in your anger,” The High Priestess says quietly.

The tension flees from Erik’s shoulders entirely at that, and he chuckles softly. “ _One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws._ ”

“That is a rather appropriate quote.” Zuri’s successor nods sternly. “In Wakanda, we believe that only a select few people are ever beyond redemption. From what we have witnessed, you are not one of them, Prince N’Jadaka.”

She waves for one of the priests to come forward. He carries a third flower in his careful hands, and he looks at Erik like he is ready to put his body between him and the little plant at any sudden movement. T’Challa clears his throat.

“There is a coming of age ceremony in the Golden Tribe. When we are fifteen, we come to this place, quietly, and plant one of the flowers into the soil. Our family has been doing it for more Generations than we have records of.”

“My Father did this.”

“Yes,” The High Priestess says. “And now you may do it, if you wish to.”

Erik stares at her for a very long moment. He looks at T’Challa, who can’t keep his warm smile hidden, and at M’Baku, who meets Erik’s eyes with complete acceptance. He nods.

“I would like that. Please.”

Erik looks from the herb to the ground, and then at T’Challa again.

“How do I..?”

“You need to dig out a place for the roots to grow,” T’Challa instructs gently.

Erik swallows. “Where- how far of a distance do they need from the other flowers?”

“About two handbreadths wide is fine.”

His cousin nods, and sinks to his knees a small distance from the first two flowers. Like Shuri, T’Challa, N’Jobu, T’Chaka, Azzuri, in a line that goes back into the mists of time to Bashenga himself, Erik uses his bare hands to move the earth, make room for the herb’s roots to grow. The priest hands him the flower carefully, and Erik takes it like it is the most valuable thing he has ever held in his hands. He sets it down into the ground and gently strokes the surrounding earth in place above the roots. An acolyte approaches and offers him a bowl of water, and he carefully pours it over the lower leaves.

“Am I- did I do this right?”

“Yes,” T’Challa says, and commits the image of his cousin to his memory like this: On the ground, looking with care onto their family’s gift from Bast.

He steps closer, and puts his hand on Erik’s shoulder.

“You did well, cousin.”

Erik gets up, and grabs T’Challa’s shoulder in return, something fierce in his eyes.

“I don’t even know what to say to you.”

“That is fine. Come.”

T’Challa says all the required things to thank the priests, but his thoughts are adrift, and his glances return to Erik’s wide-eyed expression and M’Baku’s quiet content, again and again.

They step outside, and he turns to look at M’Baku. “I know that this is not something you approve of, but I would like to show Erik the Vibranium mine. Do you want to come along?”

“I will come for my mate’s sake.” M’Baku nods. “Thank you, T’Challa.”

“You’re both very welcome.” T’Challa can’t help but say it, and sends a small prayer to Bast that he is not giving too much of his own feelings away while they walk back up the mountain.

There is a preinstalled walkway around the mine, for the purpose of educating Wakanda’s second graders. Neither of his mates ever saw it, though, and it is a good point to start. There are stations with informational diagrams and short texts to explain the basics of the engineering genius displayed all around them, and it sparks several questions from Erik, some of which are so specific that T’Challa has to refer to his little sister.

“I knew Wakanda was amazing, from the stories my father told me,” Erik says on the walkway above the blue glowing, several miles deep abyss. “But I never realized- I never understood it, until today.”

“It’s a kind of power that needs to be handled carefully,” M’Baku remarks.

“Unlike I did, yeah, I hear you.”

“Much unlike any of the plane’s tribes do, in many smaller ways,” The Jabari’s chief says with a frown. “They are all carelessly casual with technologies that are far too easy to abuse.”

“Really? I never met a single Wakandan who isn’t the textbook definition of goody-two-shoes.” Erik snorts.

“You haven’t met all that many yet, _olufẹ_.”

“I think this is something you should talk to my sister about,” T’Challa says. “She is very conscious of her inventions and their potential.”

“Maybe I should,” M’Baku agrees, and the ease of the concession surprises T’Challa.

“What brought on your change of mind?”

“Arguments from a different perspective,” M’Baku says with a wry smile to Erik.

“You two are good for each other,” T’Challa observes, amused.

“From your perspective, maybe.” M’Baku raises an eyebrow. “Do not expect me to be any less critical of your ways in the council sessions.”

“I won’t,” T’Challa says dryly. “Losing your distinct opinions would be a shame, and our discussions would be poorer for it.”

“I swear to fucking Bast, is there any kind of topic where you don’t automatically find the most diplomatic compromise?” Erik says. “For real, were you always like this? Were you like baby T’Challa, fixing the playground fights and saving kittens from trees?”

“I saved a young Rhino once, with W’Kabi, when we were seven,” T’Challa replies, nonchalant.

“Jesus.”

“That was his name. His breeder was a retired War Dog with an interest in the different world religions.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

T’Challa raises an eyebrow. “I would never disrespect you, cousin.”

M’Baku snorts, loudly, and Erik looks at him, irritated, before he breaks into a smirk as well.

“And so you’ve got a sense of humor. Who’d’a thunk.”

“I aim to please,” T’Challa says.

This is easy, easier than he ever expected it to be. When he speaks to them, something very basic within his mind comes to rest, that he hadn’t even known had been moving until now. It’s a feeling of recognition, of a way they fit together. Aided by their scents- the effect is lessened by the blockers in his systems, but his Alphas together are still the most divine scent T’Challa has ever encountered. But he cannot let himself get distracted like that.

“This morning, you said you wanted to speak to me about something.”

“Yeah.” Erik meets his eyes, but it's not aggressive. “I’ve been thinking. About what you said. And today, the flower- no matter what I say, it won’t be enough. So.”

He looks at M’Baku, and then at T’Challa.

“When I came to Wakanda, I was pretty fucked in the head. And I still am.” He laughs, and T’Challa’s heart breaks a little. M’Baku looks at Erik with open worry in his eyes.

“Finding your mate- it makes everything different. It’s like the whole world shifts around you.” Erik clenches his fists. “I’m still the man I was before. I still believe what I’ve always believed. But just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “All of your priorities sort themselves into a new order, and suddenly.” He looks at M’Baku.

“I’m not saying I’m sorry I found you. I won’t ever be sorry for that. But when I came here, I was ready to die for my goals, there wasn’t even a question what I’d do with my life. Now- I still would like to. But not at any cost. Not anymore. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do,” M’Baku says.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is.” Erik turns to T’Challa. “Are there any shrinks in Wakanda? Or like, counsellor priests or something? Cause I’ve been trying to come to terms with this, and it’s fucking impossible, and M’Baku deserves someone who can fucking function in everyday life.”

“N’Jadaka, you are more than enough,” M’Baku says firmly. “I could never ask for anyone better fit to share my life with.”

“He is right,” T’Challa says. “You shouldn’t doubt your own worth like that.”

“I am what I accomplish,” Erik says. “What I accomplished up until now is a dead priest, a bunch of burned magic flowers, and a whole lot of property damage.”

“You got better,” T’Challa tries.

Erik laughs, broken and bitter.

“I got lucky. Luckier than I deserve.”

“Not luckier than you deserve,” M’Baku disagrees. “Just lucky enough.”

Erik smiles at him weakly. “You know I’ll still like you even if you don’t say the mandatory shit?”

“You were a power hungry megalomaniac with the firm conviction that he knew what was best for the world,” M’Baku says bluntly. “You got what was coming to you, and now you get a chance to make up for it.”

“Think it’s that easy, huh?”

“It would be, if you weren’t a melodramatic American about it.”

“See what I have to put up with?”

“I do.” T’Challa manages to keep his voice even. “It’s really nothing less than you deserve.”

Erik huffs, but visibly swallows his disagreement. “So, Wakandan shrinks?”

“We do have psychologists and psychotherapists. I think I can recommend someone. He has three decades of experience with War Dogs stationed in Europe and the U.S.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“Would you like me to forward you the contact or should I arrange the first meeting?”

“I’ll make my own appointment, thanks,” Erik says. “Seriously, thank you. You didn’t need to do- well. Anything you did.”

_If you knew…_

Again, T’Challa is a hair’s breadth from saying it.

_Yes I did have to, because I’m your mate. Because I can’t watch you in pain without doing anything, because I’m your mate. Because I’m yours._

“If you really want to thank me, help me build up the security for the outreach program.”

“Whatever you want, sure.”

“I will talk to Nakia, and we will find a position where you can best apply your experience.”

“What’s the status so far?”

“We have found and planned 48 different locations in 27 countries around the globe. The outreach centers will provide free resources, education and most of them will also distribute free meals.”

“You realize you’re doing this the hard way,” Erik says. “It would be a lot easier to make the world better by force.”

“I’m doing this the _right_ way,” T’Challa gives back. “And the notion that it would be easier is a delusion. You would just invite a different set of problems.”

“Yeah, long as you remember that kind of morality is a luxury for a lot of the people you want to help.”

“It’s not luxury. It’s necessity.”

“You honestly believe in what you’re saying,” Erik says, and shakes his head. “I’m still struggling with that. Sincerity is not as common everywhere else.”

“Maybe that sincerity is a part of what Wakanda can give to the world,” T’Challa gives back.

They step back into the gentle afternoon light, and between the goddess’ obsidian paws, he recalls the last time he stood in this place, at sunset. Erik is thinking about it as well, he sees it in his face.

“This is the place where I wanted to die. I wanted to ask you to bury me in the ocean with my ancestors, who jumped ship because they knew death was better than slavery.”

M’Baku’s head jerks around and he looks sharply at both of them. Erik reaches out and entangles his hand with M’Baku’s without a second thought, while he glances at T’Challa.

“Why did you save me?”

T’Challa swallows. They are both looking at him now, and he does not have any good reason to avoid either of their eyes.

“I saved you because I wanted to. Because I could. Because your mate is right. You deserve a second chance.”

Erik nods.

“Okay.”

_I should have told them. This should have been the moment. I should have told them now._

“You look troubled,” M’Baku says. “What is bothering you?”

“I fear the time I had scheduled for this meeting is drawing to a close.” He smiles at them ruefully. “In actuality, a King’s job is not quite as glamorous as it’s made out to be.”

“Not all that high and mighty? I bet you wish one of us had actually won at Warrior Falls.” Erik smirks.

“Only on days where the council meetings go on so long that I have to skip lunch.”

Erik chuckles, and M’Baku smiles, and the tension lifts a little from T’Challa’s chest. “Is there anything else I can help you with right now?”

“Actually yeah, there’s one more thing,” Erik says. “You know some stuff about this spirit world thing, right?”

“The Djalia?” T’Challa asks.

“Yeah. The dreams. At the funeral, you said they were- real?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“So, could people meet each other in a dream?”

T’Challa looks at him, confused. “You can meet your ancestors, yes.”

“And other people? Like, your true mates?”

“N’Jadaka and I both had a strange dream last night,” M’Baku supplies.

“Well, you can always consult with the priests about that,” T’Challa says. “It is their area of expertise.”

“Maybe I will.” Erik nods.

There is something nagging at the back of his mind, but it eludes T’Challa when he tries to think of it, and his kimoyo beads make the reminder noise before he can concentrate enough.

“I need to go. I will see both of you at the next council session?”

“Sure. See you, cuz.”

“Goodbye. We will see you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a wonderful Sunday everyone :-)


	7. get by with a little help

T’Challa walks through the rest of his day in a bit of a haze, replaying the meeting with his mates in his head, over and over. It gets to the point where Ayo has to clear her throat several times when the final meeting of the day is over.

“My King, the committee has left. You have an appointment at the General’s house I am supposed to remind you of.”

T’Challa snaps out of a recollection of M’Baku’s smile reluctantly.

“Ayo, yes. I will change clothes, and take a hoverbike. You are dismissed.”

“With all due respect, my King, you seem lost in thought. May I accompany you?”

T’Challa looks at her, surprised, and she gives him a slight smile. “Okoye’s house is on my way home in any case.”

“Very well. Thank you, Ayo.”

“It’s no trouble, my King.”

He takes a moment in his rooms to collect himself, change out of his clothes, splash his face with water and get into a loose shirt, informal dark blue. He meets Ayo in the hoverbike bay, and together they speed out of Birnin Zana, onto the Avenue that runs into the direction of the Northern Border.

Okoye and W’Kabi live in one of the innermost villages of the Border Tribe, in a house with clay walls and a thatched roof, made to be seen in satellite images. Ayo leaves him at the door to head on home, and T’Challa is greeted by Nakia.

“There you are. Come in. The American brought cake.”

Inside, the house is warmly lit, walls in a light ochre tone, tapestries in multiple colors on the walls. Soft beats of music play, one of W’Kabi’s old favorite artists, and the strong scent of spices fills the air. Suddenly, T’Challa realizes how long ago his last meal was, and his mouth waters.

“My King. Welcome,” Okoye greets him. Out of uniform, she prefers muted reds, but her earrings still gleam golden, perfectly polished.

“Okoye, please. We talked about this.”

“Very well, T’Challa.” She lifts an eyebrow at him. “How was your day?”

“Yes, do tell,” Nakia chimes in with a smile.

“It went perfectly satisfactory. Thank you for asking. How was yours?”

Nakia groans, and ruffles his hair. He ducks away from under her hand with a smile, and flees into the kitchen.

Okoye and W’Kabi have preferred a traditional layout of their house, with the hearth as the center of the kitchen. The hearth itself runs on Vibranium powered inductive energy, a flickering force-field that generates heat where it touches the sizzling and steaming metal pots. W’Kabi watches over them with a critical eye, while to the side Ross chops vegetables.

“Do you need another pair of hands?”

“T’Challa!” W’Kabi turns and hugs him. “I am glad you could come.”

“It’s good to see you, my friend. And you, Mr. Ross.”

“Call me Everett, please, your majesty.”

“Only if you call me by my first name as well.”

“I am honored.”

“Don’t be.” T’Challa smiles wryly. “And give me something to do please. I need to busy my hands.”

W’Kabi has always been a passionate cook. Which is lucky, because Okoye’s skills end with coffee making, Nakia declares her systematic rejection of any Omega associated skills, and T’Challa himself has a tendency to burn water whenever he tries to learn. Everett makes himself useful, though.

“You are skilled with a knife,” W’Kabi acknowledges with a nod.

“Mandatory cooking lessons starting elementary school,” Everett says with a slight smile.

“Did they teach you how to make that cake?” T’Challa asks and fails not to throw another hungry look at the tantalizing baking pan that fills the air around it with the strong scent of cocoa.

“That’s brownies, after my Omega-parent’s recipe. You gave me an apartment with a kitchen, so I thought I’d bring something.”

“Would you maybe like an apartment with a bigger kitchen?” T’Challa asks and ambles towards the counter. “I’m sure Shuri could arrange something American style…”

Okoye swats T’Challa’s hand away. “That is dessert!”

“You only want to keep more for yourself!”

“Glory upon Bast, T’Challa, I will _end_ you!”

“Um. I can make another? Or give you the recipe? You haven’t even tried it…”

Half an hour later, they sit down on the seating pillows around the low dinner table, and T’Challa eats the best food he has had in a while.

Nakia gives them all a light-hearted update on the outreach centers in South Korea, which leads to an anecdote about her quarrel with the ivory traders that T’Challa has been curious about since Busan. It brings on an exchange of stories between her and Everett, and T’Challa listens, and suppresses the nostalgia that rises. He has always been a Prince, Crown Prince for all his life. There was never a serious option for him to become a war dog, or to simply go out on his own to see the world.

Then again, to sit here with his friends and simply listen to their banter, see their smiles, is a gift in and of itself. He is blessed by Bast, and he knows it.

“You seem lost in thought,” W’Kabi says to him, when an easy lull comes into the conversation.

“I’ll bet, after the day you had,” Everett agrees.

“What kind of day did you have?” W’Kabi asks with a frown.

Nakia’s face is the epitome of _Yikes_ for a fracture of a second before she composes herself. Okoye glances to the side, ever so faint tension in her posture, and Everett looks like he regrets every word he ever said in his life. W’Kabi himself is neither stupid nor blind.

“If it isn’t something you want to talk about- I understand. I’m not in that position, and-”

“I found my mates,” T’Challa says.

W’Kabi stares at him for a long moment, then breaks into a smile. “Congratulations! Praise the ancestors, I knew you would, eventually. More than one mate? How many, then?”

“Two.”

The image of M’Baku and Erik emerges in his mind, fingers intertwined in the temple, embracing in the hospital room, looking at him on Mount Bashenga. His throat is tight, his tongue lead.

“What’s wrong?” W’Kabi asks. “Is something- is it something I can help with?”

“No. I haven’t told them yet.”

“The blockers.” W’Kabi realizes. “How long will they last?”

“About two more weeks,” T’Challa sighs.

“Who are they? If you haven’t told them yet, there must be a reason,” W’Kabi says with a frown.

“They’re not- no. I am not ready to tell them.” T’Challa straightens. “I know that I have to, before the blockers wear off, but I need to think about how to approach it.”

W'Kabi nods with a frown. "You don't want to talk about it."

"Not really." He sighs.

"Then I will not pressure you. It is your own decision how and when you approach them."

"Or _if_ ," Everett says, and pulls the everyone's alarmed eyes on him.

"What?" Okoye asks, stunned.

Everett clenches his jaw and straightens. "I'm saying, just because they are your mates, it does not give them any rights to decide what you do or how you live your life."

"That-" W'Kabi looks at him aghast. "That is not what mateship means."

"Then you are lucky to be born in Wakanda," Everett says and crosses his arms.

"T'Challa is the King," Okoye says sharply. "And I will personally destroy anyone who tries to take his decisions from him."

"True mates would not do that," W'Kabi insists.

"Yeah they would. I've seen it happen again and again," Everett says quietly. "It seems to me that you are living in a very happy bubble, but the world at large is not all that well off."

" _Fuck that,_ " Nakia says angrily.

"Nakia!" W'Kabi looks at Nakia indignantly.

"And _fuck_ whoever taught you that. True mateship is a gift, not a way to gain control of another."

"What is wrong with the Westerners for them to treat their own that way?" Okoye asks, angry.

Everett shrugs. "It's been getting better slowly. Twenty years ago, I never would have made CIA."

"Are they not aware that they inhibit a fifth of ther populance's potential when they hinder their Omegas that way?" W'Kabi ask.

"No, they're really not." Everett shrugs nonchalantly. "But you learn to deal with it."

"How did you become a spy, then?" W'Kabi asks. "Was your family smarter than the rest, at least?"

Everett snorts loudly. "My family are the worst of traditionalists."

"Then how did you convince them to let you choose this carreer?" W'Kabi insists.

"I didn't. I rejected an arranged marriage when I was fifteen and asked my father if I could go to college. He threw me out and the only thing that saved me was a scholarship to NYU. I took a part time job and spent my first paycheck on the cheapest blockers I could find. And then I worked."

" _Masende kayihlo!_ " Okoye swears, and this time W'Kabi doesn't even twitch, because his mouth is hanging open.

"That isn't meant to be a sob story. There’s a lot worse stories, trust me. I'm proud of what I accomplished. These struggles actually taught me a lot."

“Your father threw you out, just like that?” W’Kabi asks, with an undertone of anger.

“He did me a favor, really.”

Everett is painfully nonchalant about his experience.

T’Challa sends a quiet prayer of Thanks to Bast that he was born in Wakanda, that his country values all its people for their merit. Going forward, this is something they should address and focus on in the outreach program. They have better blockers and suppressants available, they simply need to share the formulas. Or maybe fabricate them on their own, because from what he knows about Pharmaceutical Companies, it’s unlikely they will distribute them with a fair price. He makes a mental note to message Shuri about the topic.

“Anyways, sorry for derailing the conversation like that,” Everett says quietly and looks down on his hands. “This was a really nice evening.”

“It still is.” Nakia reaches out and touches his shoulder with a smile. “And I am glad that you told us about your life. You are right, Wakanda is a bubble. We often don’t realize how lucky we are.”

“You should talk to my sister about the blockers,” T’Challa says.

“She’s way ahead of you.” Everett smiles. “She poked me with that blood-scan thing of hers and, er.” He scratches his head. “She certainly has an impressive Vocabulary.”

“Ah, yes, sorry.” T’Challa chuckles.

“Don’t say sorry when you taught her half of those words,” W’Kabi comments.

“She gave me several shots, and a special kimoyo bead for monitoring, and if I’m lucky some of the long term effects may be reversible.” Everett flushes slightly. “Though, I’m really not sure I look forward to it.”

“Heats are not as bad in Wakanda as everywhere else in the world,” Nakia says, reassuring. “I always come home for mine. It’s actually nice, to spend some days in seclusion, catch up on all the Wakandan soap operas and let yourself get pampered by the food delivery.”

“That doesn’t sound dangerous,” Everett says, with slight disbelief.

“That’s because our Alphas and Betas are taught that an Omega’s heat is something sacred, to respect and protect,” Nakia says firmly. “It’s not seen as a chance to hurt someone vulnerable, like those American movies like to make it seem.”

“Almost too good to be true.” Everett sighs. “But I guess it’s a better bet than putting my body into endocrinological chaos for the rest of my life.”

“Wakanda is different,” Okoye says firmly, and T’Challa sends her a surprised glance. “And we will prove it. To you, and to the rest of the world.”

“This feels pretty strange to me.” Everett leans back a little, and smiles at her. “But I believe you.”

They rest of the evening passes light-hearted, and much too quickly. T’Challa says his goodbyes, a little earlier than he would have liked, but there is still a report to be written on the desk in his bedroom.

He finally drops into his bed on the cusp between late and early, and falls asleep immediately.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W'Kabi, tearing his blanket from his body to reveal a smaller, more cuddlier blanket: It was me, I was the Mom-friend all along!
> 
> Thank you for your lovely, lovely comments. They fuel me when pepsi runs out and headaches set in. Have a good start into the week!


	8. no music without clamor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is M'Baku's POV of this chapter.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14988044)

"You look tired," Okoye greets him the next morning in front of his office.

T'Challa gives her a wry glance and chooses not to reply.

"And you have a visitor," She warns just as he is about to open the door.

M'Baku stands up when he steps into the room. "King T'Challa."

"Chief M'Baku." T'Challa smiles at his mate, because he can't not. "How may I help you?"

M'Baku clears his throat. He looks around the office, and then back at T’Challa.

“If your offer of the airship still stands, I would like to take you up on it.”

“Of course.” T’Challa touches his kimoyo beads and types a quick message for the Talon squadron. He has already picked out the airship, but M’Baku doesn’t need to know that.

“I have to return to Jabariland for two days. N’Jadaka has his first appointment this morning.” M’Baku looks T’Challa square in the eye. “You care about my mate. You have been a good friend to both of us, when you didn’t have any obligation to.”

“Please, think nothing of it,” T’Challa says quietly. “Let’s not keep a score on these things.”

“I have a favor to ask.”

“You don’t have to ask me to look after my cousin while you are away,” T’Challa says. “I would do so in any case.”

M’Baku pauses, and nods. “Good. I will do my best to return quickly, but this is a matter that cannot be put off.”

“If I can be of assistance, please tell me.”

“Not even your physicians can cure all diseases. The oldest of my Elders is nearing the end of her life, and there are things that need to be done.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” T’Challa says. “May the ancestors guard her and your people.”

“Thank you, T’Challa.” M’Baku sighs. “I spoke to N’Jadaka this morning, and he assured me that he would be fine.”

“It’s natural to worry about one’s mate. Your situation is rather unique.”

“He has offered to come with me, but he isn’t yet fully accustomed to Birnin Zana. It would be unfair of me to- You don’t want to hear this.”

“I don’t mind listening to you, my friend,” T’Challa says. _It’s the very least I could do._

M’Baku sighs. “I want to bring him home, but as matters are, I would not have enough time to give to him there. It’s better for him to stay here, among his family.” M’Baku smiles slightly. “He feels that as well, and yet still offered to accompany me.”

“You know, the mid-range communication units in the Talons have excellent transmission, even into the mountains,” T’Challa says. “If you took your kimoyo beads, you could access it within a radius of a mile.”

M’Baku glares at him, and T’Challa raises his hands. “It is only a suggestion.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“When do you leave?”

“Right now. No use in wasting the morning.”

“Have a safe flight, M’Baku.”

“Thank you, T’Challa.”

M’Baku leaves, and Okoye only raises her eyebrow at T’Challa ever so slightly.

T’Challa reads and responds to a missive from the mining tribe, sits in remotely on the Border Tribe’s monthly guard briefing, and eats the lunch one of the palace’s servers pointedly, with a respectful bow, places on his desk. On his way out, the server and Okoye exchange nods of mutual approval, and T’Challa muses on the nature of insubordination. During his afternoon paperwork, an invitation from his mother for dinner pings on his kimoyo beads. Five minutes later, Erik’s face assembles from the projected particles on his desk.

“Damn, I really love the tech in this country. Hey cuz, wassup?”

“Hello, Erik.” T’Challa leans back, crosses his arms, and tries to fight the smile on his lips. “I’m glad you enjoy the advantages of the kimoyo beads.”

“Yeah. Right. About that. I think your Mom accidentally sent me an invitation to dinner?”

“I doubt that it was an accident. I also received an invitation, and you may expect Shuri as well.”

“Family dinner. Honestly?” The mix of disgust and panic on Erik’s face should probably be amusing, but it pulls on T’Challa’s heart.

“You do not have to attend, if you feel uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.” Erik snorts. “Nah, I can’t put this off.”

“You can, if you want to. I would cover for you, if you want.”

“Thanks, but I just- no. Okay, I guess I’ll see you there.”

“Don’t worry too much about it, please.” T’Challa can’t help but say. “My mother is a kind woman, and my little sister is… spirited. I think you will get along well enough.”

“Uhuh. Just FYI, your little sister hates my guts because I almost killed you. But I’ll deal with it. See you tonight.”

The transmission closes abruptly, and T’Challa sighs. He cannot admonish his mother for inviting her long estranged nephew to eat with them, but he still wishes she had consulted him first.

He spends the rest of the afternoon decidedly not thinking about anything but his kingdom, until Okoye and her side-eye escort him towards his parent’s apartment. He has barely stepped through the door before Shuri is on him. She pokes his arm through the fabric of his robe and he receives a prick of electricity, then the device in her hand beeps.

“Thirteen days,” She tells him.

“Was that necessary?” T’Challa rubs his arm.

“Oh yes, absolutely. Come on, I need your help,” She says and grabs his hand to pull him into the dining room.

“The great genius needs my help?”

“You need to work your king-magic. I am _not_ spending an evening like this!”

_Bast save me._

By “this”, Shuri means his mother, stiff at one side of the big, square dinner table, as she holds a conversation with the most uncomfortable looking server T’Challa has ever seen in his life, while his- Erik lounges on his chair, arms crossed, watching the ceiling.

T’Challa clears his throat, and his mother sends him a strained smile.

“My son. I am happy you could come. Please take your seat so we can start.”

“Hello Mother. Hello Erik. It is good to see you both.”

 _What would Baba do?_ Maybe that is not the best question to ask, considering the tension in Erik’s shoulders.

“Hey cuz. Princess.”

“Killmonger,” Shuri greets him with an aggressive smile.

“Shuri!” Ramonda admonishes.

“Yes Mama?”

“Please address your cousin correctly.”

“The last time I used that kind of language at the table you grounded me for a week.”

Erik scoffs. “Yeah, go ahead. I’m not that big on etiquette anyways. Missed my lessons, what with being in foster care on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“I will not allow that tone at my dinner table, from either of you!” Ramonda says sharply.

“Sorry, but you’re not even my real auntie.”

“N’Jadaka.” His mother takes a deep breath to compose herself. “I know that there are a lot of things that need to be said between us.”

“Like ‘Sorry my husband killed your father’?” Erik says, bitter sarcasm in his voice.

“For instance,” Ramonda says. “He never told me what happened on that mission, but I will always remember the night he came back from it. He never was the same afterwards.”

“My heart goes out to you,” Erik says, biting.

“Since you put your best efforts into killing my brother, I would consider us even,” Shuri replies in an acrid tone.

“Even? Your brother is sitting here alive and well.”

“No thanks to you, murderer!”

“Shuri, please,” T’Challa says. His mind reels with things that he should say, could say. None of them are good enough. He promised M’Baku that he would watch out for Erik…

“No, brother. I will have my say.” Shuri levels Erik with a sharp glare. “I did not know who you were when you first came here. I did not know how you operate. I do now, and this is your only warning. If you raise a finger against any of my family, if you try to hurt my brother again, _I will end you_.”

“Big words for a little girl,” Erik says, but there is a challenge there, and the tension in his shoulders has eased some. “You really gonna sit there and judge me, while you and your brother grew up in your ebony tower, with your family whole, surrounded by every possible luxury?!”

“My brother worked hard every day of his life to become a King worthy of our people. You judged him, you judged my entire country by our father’s mistake. You have no leg to stand on!”

“Your Daddy was confident enough to judge mine for his mistakes! All my father wanted was to help people, and he got killed by his own brother for it.”

“Your father caused the loss of over thirty Wakandan lives when he disclosed vital secrets to Ulysses Klaue,” Ramonda interjects. “T’Chaka’s actions were not justified, but the truth of what exactly happened that night to lead to the confrontation will forever remain between him, your father and Zuri.”

T’Challa swallows heavily, and tries to surmount the guilt in his chest. He knows what happened, he has Zuri’s account, but this is not the right time to share it. Erik looks at him just that moment, though, and his eyes narrow.

“We have to move forward from this,” Ramonda says, firm and gentle. “No matter how you came to be in this family, and no matter what fights happened in the past, Bast has given us this chance to reconcile.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“It really isn’t.” His mother gives Erik a stern glance, the same one that never failed to make T’Challa tidy his room and do his homework when he was a boy. It has some effect on Erik, even if his cousin tries to shrug it off.

“Okay, so what you want?”

“Let us start with a weekly dinner, and do this one day at a time,” Ramonda says, determined. “And you are very welcome to bring your mate next time.”

“We should invite Okoye and Nakia,” Shuri adds, sardonic. “It’ll save us some time on our next Saturday brunch.”

“What?” Erik looks at her bewildered, and T’Challa barely restrains himself from slamming his forehead against his mother’s nice mahogany table.

“Well then.” Ramonda straightens her back and nods at the server, who stands between two Dora Milaje, all three of them ringing for composure. “I think we are ready to eat now.”

_Great Goddess, help me. Well, at least we are providing entertainment._

The royal Palace is a beehive, run by the Golden Tribe’s families for generations, and it has a long established, intricate network of gossip that reaches from the Dora Milaje down to the gardener’s apprentice. All of those people are deeply loyal, T’Challa knows without a doubt. He can name everyone who works in the Palace, because he grew up among them and makes a point to keep up to date on new hires. But if a conversation is overheard, like this one has been, there is no point to try and keep it secret.

And maybe that is a good thing. It will help his people understand his mate’s struggles. Erik is still watched like an outsider, like the usurper he was for only a little less than a day. One way or another, T’Challa will have to reveal the truth about their mateship, and then Erik will be bound even more to the surroundings of the Palace. T’Challa wants, he _needs_ the Golden Tribe to like Erik.

Dinner is served during his musings, and they eat in a slightly uncomfortable silence. With a sting of longing, T’Challa remembers last night’s dinner. W’Kabi’s Piri Piri Chicken, Everett’s brownies and their laughter seems a lot longer ago than just 24 hours.

Shuri eats quickly, even for the standards of someone who prefers lab reports to food on most days.

“May I be excused?”

“If you must.” Ramonda sighs.

“Okay, we done for this week?” Erik asks as Shuri gets up, grabs T’Challa’s shoulder, nods at her mother, and leaves.

“Actually, there is one more thing I would like to discuss with you, N’Jadaka.”

His mother gestures for the server and the Dora Milaje to leave, and they comply, even though both of the guards meet T’Challa’s eyes as they do so. T’Challa gives them a faint nod.

Ramonda rises from her seat. “Please follow me.”

Erik sends T’Challa a questioning glance, and T’Challa tries for a reassuring smile as they follow her into his mother’s solar.

His mother goes to her elegant desk, and retrieves something from the top drawer. It gleams in the light, and Erik stiffens the same moment T’Challa recognizes N’Jobu’s ring.

“I held on to this since –that day,” Ramonda says and hands the ring back to Erik. “It is yours by right of blood.”

Erik’s fingers close around the metal in a white-knuckled grip.

“It’s the only-” he breaks off, and takes a deep breath.

“It’s the only thing you have left of your father,” T’Challa says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“But it is not everything that we have left of him,” Ramonda says. “The belongings from his rooms were moved. T’Chaka kept them in storage. They, also, are your inheritance, if you want them.”

Erik stares at her, petrified, and T’Challa steps in.

“You do not have to decide that now, Erik.”

“Yes. I want them. Everything you got.”

“I will instruct the housekeeper to send them to your rooms.” Ramonda nods. “And there is one more thing that I would like to ask you, if you have the patience left.”

“Sure,” Erik says faintly, and T’Challa marvels at the disarmed look on his mate’s face.

“My heart hurts at the thought of your father’s remains buried in foreign soil. If you want it, I will arrange for them to be brought home, so he may take his rest in his mother country.”

A quick series of emotions crosses Erik’s features.

“This is also a question you may take time to answer,” Ramonda says.

“Don’t need to. He’s buried in Oakland Central, by my Mom’s side. He’d wanna stay with his true mate.”

“Then we could bring her home as well. As the true mate of N’Jobu, she was a Princess of Wakanda.”

“I- you’re serious.” Erik sighs, and his shoulders slump. “You’re right, I need some time to think that one through.”

“Whenever you are ready, tell me or T’Challa,” Ramonda says.

“Yeah. Thanks, auntie.”

“I am not sure I like that nickname.”

“That’s basically what nicknames’re for.”

“Good night, my nephew. Good night, my son.”

“Good night, mother.” T’Challa meets his mother’s gentle eyes. “And thank you.”

“Night, auntie.”

They leave the apartment together, and outside, the Dora Milaje guards join them, three steps behind.

“So, you gonna tell me what you know about my Father’s death?”

“What do you mean?” T’Challa asks, in vain. He is a terrible liar, and his mate’s eyes pierce right through him.

“I saw your face when it came up. You know something.” Erik steps into his way and crosses his arms. “You weren’t surprised when I came into your throne room the first time. So my guess is, you got Uncle James to talk.”

T’Challa waves away the Dora Milaje, and sighs.

“Yes, I talked to Zuri.”

“I have a right to hear what he told you.”

“You do.” T’Challa meets his eyes. “But are you sure you want to?”

“I won’t like it if it’s got you looking at me like that. But I won’t find peace of mind until I hear this, so you might as well spit it out.”

“They fought.” T’Challa does his best to keep the immeasurable sadness in his voice at bay. “My father dismissed N’Jobu’s arguments, and ordered him to return home. Your father drew his gun on Zuri. My father intervened.” He bites his lip, and then meets his mate’s eyes. “Erik-”

“Yeah no. You were right. I didn’t want to hear that.”  

Erik turns away from him.

“Good night, your majesty.”

T’Challa is entirely unable to keep his eyes from following him as he leaves down the hallway. Only the presence of the Dora Milaje makes him force his composure. He goes to his rooms, and there is still his schedule for tomorrow that should be revised and prepared, but he cannot bring himself to do it. He falls into bed, and stares at his room’s ceiling for a long time before sleep takes him.

 

 

_The Panther treads the planes, restless, the fur of his neck ruffled. The other cats that lounge in the tree greet him, and he growls at them. They look at him from half-lowered lids with mild disapproval, so he sharpens his claws against the ancient tree’s bark._

_“What are you doing, my son, hmm?”_

_The Panther snarls and turns his back, but he doesn’t want to walk away. T’Chaka sighs._

_“Your mates are looking for you.”_

_With a glare, the Panther turns and paces around the tree in a useless circle._

_“Don’t worry. We will not tell them. But you should.”_

_He snarls at T’Chaka, again, and the old man sighs, his shoulders weighed with guilt._

_“Zuri is down by the river. I know you miss him.”_

_Restlessness sparks in his bones. The Panther jumps into a run. He scents the air for water, and follows the lead downhill, until he comes to the riverbed. Crocodiles eye him, nod at him with respect, and yawn into the eternal twilight._

_A crowned crane, grey-feathered, stalks out of the reeds and onto the shore, and sits down next to the Panther as the human Zuri. He is much younger than the Panther remembers, and wears a shirt of Wakandan purple, but also jeans and dirty trainers on his feet._

_“My King. I am honored by your visit.”_

_The Panther lies down and stares into the water, and Zuri sighs. When he extends his hand to stroke the Panther’s head, he is not rejected._

_“I am sorry for all the trouble that I caused. But you know that.”_

_They sit under the stars for a while, until the grass on the other side of the river parts. The crocodiles that rest on the sandbank glide into the water smoothly, and take new spots, away from the Gorilla and the Jaguar that step onto the opposite riverbank._

_The moment the Jaguar sees Zuri, he snarls and leaps across the river, and the Panther moves like lightening to jump into his path. With a feral snarl, the Panther strikes with clawed paw, sharp teeth, and pins his mate to the ground by his neck._

_“Fuck you! Let go of me you motherfucker!”_

_“Please. I deserve his anger,” Zuri says quietly._

_The Panther increases the pressure on his mate’s throat, a threat, and then lets go to place himself between Zuri and his Jaguar mate._

_“I’m sorry, Erik.”_

_“Fuck you, Uncle James, and Fuck you, kitten. You’re supposed to be on my side!”_

_The Panther growls, and rubs his forehead against Zuri’s arm without breaking eye-contact._

_“I think our kitten has claimed this one as his own, Olufẹ.”_

_Their Gorilla mate in his human form steps next to N’Jadaka with quiet confidence, and considers the Panther and his friend._

_“You are Zuri. The High Priest who lead the ceremony.”_

_“That is correct, Chief M’Baku.” Zuri sighs. “I am also the man who spied on Prince N’Jobu, which lead to his death. I knowingly abandoned Erik to the mercies of a place I knew to be beyond cruel.”_

_“Yet still you somehow get a pretty cozy afterlife,” N’Jadaka spits. “If I could kill you again, I would, without a second’s hesitation.”_

_Fur of his neck in electric bristles, the Panther exposes his teeth with a hiss._

_“There’s no need for you to fight with your mates over me,” Zuri says softly._

_“_ _Come again?” N’Jadaka stares at Zuri, then at the Panther._

 _“You’re our third, aren’t you,_ _ômô ológbò,” M’Baku says._

_“Who are you?” N’Jadaka asks, sharp._

_The Panther turns away, to look at Zuri reproachfully. Zuri gives him a gentle smile._

_“Uncle James, if you ever want even a chance of forgiveness, you’ll tell us who he is right now,” N’Jadaka growls._

_“That is not how things work here, Erik. And it’s not why we met.”_

_“Even in death you’re still fucking useless.” There is hurt underneath N’Jadaka’s angry tone, enough for M’Baku to place his hand on his mate’s shoulder in comfort. The Panther walks towards his mates, and bumps his head so heavy against N’Jadaka’s thigh that the man has to grab M’Baku’s arm to keep his balance._

_“So now you’re suddenly cuddly?” He extends his hand, and yelps when the Panther nips at it, enough to hurt, not enough to bleed. “Ouch! What the fuck, kitten?”_

_“You need to talk to each other. All three of you,” Zuri says, and gives the Panther a stern look._

_“Thanks for nothing, asshole.”_

_“I am truly sorry, Erik. What happened that night- it was the fault of all three of us who were there. And we all paid our prices in suffering. Our own suffering, and in the suffering of those we love.” Zuri looks at N’Jadaka, and the Panther, and lowers his head, defeated._

_“I am neither entitled to nor deserving of your forgiveness. But for the benefit of your mates, I ask you, let go.”_

_N’Jadaka says nothing, and the air around Zuri shimmers, as the grey-crowned crane returns. He bows to them, gracefully, then soars into the starlit sky of purple._

_“Something you wanna tell us?”_

_N’Jadaka raises his eyebrow at the Panther, who turns away haughtily and walks towards the open savannah._

_“Ey, kitten!” N’Jadaka calls after him. “You know we gon’ find you, right?”_

_“Consider that a promise, ômô ológbò.”_

_With a huff, the Panther falls into a run, to leave their voices behind. He is King under these stars, and that is his prerogative._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys wanted another deam sequence, so I wrote you one. Glory to Bast and Hanuman!


	9. three letters that you need to spell frustration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is Erik's POV of this chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13985649).

 

The next day passes in a fog, and no matter what T’Challa does, he cannot snap out of it. Neither Nakia nor Okoye question it at their respective meetings, which makes sense. The end of his and Erik’s talk probably has made its rounds through the entirety of Birnin Zana by now.

On the day after that, in the afternoon, the doors to his office fly open and Shuri walks into the room, Everett in tow.

“Congratulations, brother, you have the rest of your day cancelled. You are going to the training grounds with the American and me.”

“Shuri, I cannot simply- I have-” T’Challa says, tries to remember what was next on his schedule, and glances at his kimoyo beads, only to find his timetable cleared.

“Did you think I was joking?” Shuri declares. “Everett, help me.”

She takes his arm and pulls him out of his chair, and Everett hesitantly steps to his other side and places a hand on T’Challa’s shoulder.

“Right, your Majesty. If I gather this correctly, this is a carefully planned intervention, and you have no chance of eluding it.”

T’Challa blinks at him, then looks at Shuri’s smirk, and lets himself be dragged out of his office. Okoye awaits them with a stern nod, and they take an elevator and two stations on the public train to get to the Royal Training Grounds.

There is a wide variety of training areas, from target practice ranges for all kinds of weapons, over the simple training fields where recruits of the Palace Guards and the Dora Milaje are running drills, to various specific training courses to emulate different environments.

Okoye leads them to T’Challa’s preferred training ground, down by the river. A small side arm which splits away from the main body of water upstream creates a low waterfall above a shallow pond, which gets gradually deeper where the water finds its way back into the riverbed. Between the river and its sidearm, there is an island, just large enough for a small training field.

The silt ground is treaded firm, but springs back to the step, and there are three trees with intermingled canopies for shadow. Several wooden posts for simple combat drills surround the training area. It’s been T’Challa’s favorite place since he was a boy, and it is usually reserved for his uses.

Ayo awaits them with a selection of practice weapons and greets them with crossed arms, and T’Challa returns the gesture with a frown.

“I am not sure…”

“You need to get out of your head, brother. And I need to brush up on my training,” Shuri declares.

“The Princess is right,” Okoye says. “You have not been yourself lately, and it is past time that you find back to your confidence.”

He gives her an unnerved look, but sighs and undoes his robe.

“Very well. I do not have anything better to do, apparently.”

Shuri whoops, and starts her warm-up drills with Ayo. Okoye approaches Everett with a practice spear.

“Have you ever fought with one of these, American?”

“Can’t say that I have.” Everett blinks.

“I will show you the basic forms.”

Shirtless, with the sun warm on his skin, T’Challa folds his body into a methodical series of stretches and smiles to himself. Everett doesn’t know what an honor he receives by having the General for a teacher, but that doesn’t derogate from his respect for the lesson. He listens and watches carefully, and tries his best when Okoye relentlessly corrects his stance and grip again and again.

T’Challa breathes deep and falls into the weaponless basic forms, unhurried. They are his second nature, easy as breathing, taught to him by his father from his fifth birthday. He recalls their lessons with a bittersweet longing, those back when he was a boy, and those more serious that followed when he had won his right to take on the mantle of Black Panther.

The gurgles of the stream around them, the voices of his sister and his friends, the farther noises from the training grounds, the calls of the water birds, the scent of the warm river, it all weaves together into a peaceful calm that comes over his mind.

“Brother,” Shuri calls after he has finished the final form.

“Would you like to learn something?” He asks with a teasing smile.

“Bring it!”

Ayo steps aside with a chuckle, and T’Challa mock bows to his little sister, who holds a medium sized wooden staff in her hands. She strikes first, and he can see where she will move immediately. He dodges narrowly, rolls under her next swing, and pokes her ribs. She squeaks and brings her staff down hard, and he flips out of range with a grin.

“Be serious.”

“If you insist. Ayo?”

He catches the staff Ayo throws him in the middle of Shuri’s next attack, and they are of. His little sister has made progress, but there are still a lot of moves that she needs to fine-tune. Only practice will do that, and T’Challa is glad to indulge her for as long as her stamina lasts.

After almost an hour of fighting, she finally yields.

“Alright, I’m done. My arms are jelly.”

“Take a break.” T’Challa nods.

“A break? You pulverized my muscles, you superpowered freak,” Shuri groans and sits down in the grass under the trees.

“My King, we have company.” Okoye says. There is a troubled undertone to the statement that makes T’Challa look up.

W’Kabi is in the process of crossing the stepping stones to the training ground, and he is not alone. M’Baku and Erik are with him.

“I am sorry,” Okoye mumbles to him, face turned away from her mate. “When I invited him, I didn’t mention not to bring anyone else.”

T’Challa has not yet found the courage to disclose to W’Kabi exactly _who_ his mates are. That lack of decisiveness has now come back to haunt him in the form of two ridiculously handsome Alphas.

“My King, my Princess, my Love, Captain. I hope it is alright that I brought comrades. The Prince and the Chief mentioned that they were looking for an opportunity for some exercise.”

There is no malice to be found in W’Kabi’s expression, and why would there be. All he knows is that T’Challa seeks to repair his relationship with his lost-and-found cousin, as well as the diplomatic relationship with the Jabari.

“Of course,” T’Challa says, and carefully avoids Erik’s eyes. “Be welcome here as long as you like.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” M’Baku says, with a quirk to his lips. “I am certainly looking forward to see how the Black Panther trains.”

“And I could do with some sparring,” Erik says, with a crooked smile. “If you’re up for that, cuz.”

It is possibly the friendliest tone Erik has ever used with him, so T’Challa takes it for the peace offering that it is.

“When I am done with Everett, we may do so.” T’Challa nods.

“Uh. Done?” Everett asks with a concerned expression.

“You need proper hand-to-hand instructions,” T’Challa says to him. “I saw you fight in Busan. You cannot always rely on firearms.”

“U-huh.” Everett gives him a sardonic look that would make Nakia proud, but he shrugs and joins T’Challa, a little distance away from the group. T’Challa instructs Everett in the five basic forms of the modern Wakandan martial arts, and has him practice them in increasingly complicated exchanges. It’s an easy enough task so that T’Challa can also watch the rest of their little group.

Shuri, Ayo and Okoye sit in the grass next to each other. They and Erik, leaning against a tree, watch W’Kabi and M’Baku who are about to face off with a wooden sword and a short club, respectively.

“Let’s see how you do when you are not on an oversized horse,” M’Baku challenges.

“I have a lot of experience handling things that are heavier than me,” W’Kabi gives back.

They charge at each other, and the jangle of wood meeting wood sounds across the training field. M’Baku is unexpected quick, the play of muscles in his arms and under the visible skin of his chest in perfect attunement with the rhythm of the fight. W’Kabi holds his own, his blanket still cloaked around his shoulders.

The Border Tribe’s traditional fighting style draws a heavy advantage from the fact that their blankets conceal their moves and intentions until the last possible moment, and W’Kabi is an adept at it. M’Baku rolls with the punches though, and manages to counter each of the smaller man’s strikes.

“I would not want to get between that,” Everett comments, low and amused.

“You are so small, you’d slip right through,” T’Challa replies absent mindedly, and watches M’Baku move in on W’Kabi, deflecting the sword’s hits with precise dexterity.

Everett huffs, with a soft smile, and T’Challa sends him a questioning look.

“We can just watch them, if you want.”

“No. I said I’d train you, and you will get a proper lesson. Show me what you learned.”

With the resolve to focus on his own match, T’Challa gestures for Everett to start. The smaller Omega comes at him, face determined, with a mix of his American style punches and the strikes T’Challa taught him. T’Challa deflects the blow and occasionally counters, to train his pupils reflexes.

“Hu!”

A victorious shout from across the field draws T’Challa’s attention just in time to see W’Kabi’s practice sword sailing into the water, and W’Kabi lifting his hands in surrender.

“Very well. You won, Great Gorilla.”

“Glory to Hanuman.” M’Baku grins, smug.

Everett chuckles softly, and T’Challa quickly looks back at him.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” Everett ducks, and swoops a low kick that T’Challa didn’t teach him. He is a quick learner, and it is a crime that his training has been so neglected until now. “It’s just, knowing what I know, your looks aren’t all that subtle anymore. Not enough for someone unsuspecting to notice, but yeah-” He blocks T’Challa’s three successive hits. “There’s chemistry.”

“I’ll thank you not to speak too loudly.”

There is a hint of mischief in the other Omega’s eyes, but he obliges. T’Challa puts Everett on his back in revenge, and the other man laughs out loud.

“I didn’t think you could be petty, your majesty.”

T’Challa pulls him up with a quirk to his lips, and notices Okoye approaching them. The others are watching her, and T’Challa keeps his deliberate eyes on his General.

“My King. Ayo and I were wondering if you would indulge us?”

“Of course. Choose your weapons.” T’Challa replies.

This is the epitome of easy. He trained alongside the Dora Milaje almost his entire life, and Okoye and Ayo have been part of his personal cadre since he was announced as the official heir to the throne. They know him, his quirks and preferences, with and without the Black Panther’s strength; and he knows them as well. There is no one he is more comfortable with on the sparring ground.

“Okay my friends, you will want to step aside for this one,” W’Kabi announces loudly, good-humored. “Those three have a habit of wrecking equipment as well as bystanders.”

Everett heeds that advice and goes to sit down next to Shuri, while Ayo and Okoye consider the practice weapons.

“One staff to the head,” Ayo mutters. “You would think the Border tribe’s skulls too thick to notice.”

“Rhinos are sensitive creatures, Ayo,” T’Challa quips and smirks at W’Kabi, who puts his hand on his chest in mock outrage.

“Sensitive? My lovely Alpha, avenge this insult!”

“Please guard your beautiful face better, my beloved,” Okoye replies. “It is so often your sole redeeming quality.”

“You say that like you wouldn’t starve without my cooking.”

“That is true,” T’Challa acknowledges.

Okoye raises both eyebrows at him while she hands Ayo a long practice spear and swirls her own around her wrist with casual, deadly grace.

“I will remind you of the last time we left you alone in our kitchen, my King.”

T’Challa glares, W’Kabi laughs from the side, and Ayo snorts and breaks into a run. He dodges her sharp thrust, catches the other end of her spear and throws a kick at her chest. She blocks it, and Okoye moves in before he can take any advantage of the position. It’s a competitive choreography of whirls, occasionally intermingled with measured exchanges of blows. He has to restrain himself, but not as much as with everyone else.

Okoye and Ayo are objectively the best fighters under his command. Their spears work to keep a close combat specialist like T’Challa at a distance, and it evens out the odds considerably. Still, after a few turns, he gets in a kick to Ayo’s side that sends her flying a moderate distance, and uses the opportunity to lunge at Okoye.

“Is that all you have, my King?” Okoye challenges with a fierce grin, and T’Challa can’t help his own laughter. He uses the Panther’s strength to leap over her swipe, lands behind her and twists the spear out of her hands. It earns him an elbow to the stomach and a quick succession of kicks, but he uses her own spear against her to block.

“Well, I have your spear at least, General.”

“Okoye!”

Okoye catches Ayo’s spear without even looking, and advances with fire in her eyes. Her next series of attacks is so rapid in succession that he stops thinking entirely and loses himself in the blur of movement, the fluent rhythm of the fight. Ayo never joins back in, but Okoye with her mind set entirely on battle is enough to occupy him, easily.

“Go Okoye!” Shuri yells from the side.

“Brat!” T’Challa shouts back, and Okoye uses his momentary distraction to kick him square in the chest.

He flies backwards, catches himself and rolls low on his feet, and then he charges, determined.  A strike, she blocks, rolls, and leaves the tiniest opening, turns a fracture of a second too late. He disarms her with a fierce circular swoop, and the spear’s wooden end comes to rest an inch before it hits her neck.

“I yield.” She smiles at him warmly. “Well done, my King.”

Both of them breathe heavy, and T’Challa feels his blood buzzing with adrenaline, warm and full of energy.

“You were right. Thank you,” He says quietly.

“You both look like you could use some water.” Everett approaches them with two bottles and a wide smile. As he hands T’Challa one of them, he lowers his voice to the bare minimum. “By the way, judging from the way they watch you, the chemistry’s definitely reciprocated.”

“You’re welcome,” Okoye says, just as low, and gives him a smug look. T’Challa somehow manages to get the first sip of water entirely into the wrong pipe, and has to cough it up.

_What have I done to anger you, Bast?_

His flushes never show, but he still feels the warmth in his ears, cheeks, spreading down his bare chest. Sweaty and dirty, he really doesn’t make a very sophisticated picture right now. Everett likely just overstates the simple fact that any fight between skilled warriors would be interesting to watch.

He collects his thoughts, regains his composure, and approaches the rest of their audience, gathered in the shadow of the trees.

“That was a good fight, my friend,” W’Kabi says.

“I needed it.” T’Challa shrugs.

“You still up for one more round?” Erik asks, with an eager smile and a challenge in his tone.

“No weapons,” Okoye says bluntly.

“You don’t trust my mate around his own cousin?” M’Baku asks, irked.

“I don’t trust either of you around my King, Great Gorilla,” Okoye replies calmly. “You will forgive me, because not trusting people with T’Challa’s safety is at the top of my job description.”

“That’s fine,” Erik says and juts out his chin, cocky. “I don’t need no weapons.”

Shuri snorts, loud and obnoxious. “You couldn’t take my brother if he had one hand tied behind his back.”

“Actually, score’s 1:1 right now,” Erik gives back. “I threw him off a cliff, he stabbed me through the chest.”

“You only won at the waterfall because my brother didn’t want to kill you, and you know it,” Shuri replies coldly. “He spared you two times before you killed Zuri.”

Her comment leaves an awkward silence that she isn’t even sorry for. T’Challa’s heart aches, but at the same time something in his chest stirs and _snarls_ with the sudden tension in the air.

“Face me, if you want that tiebreaker, Cousin,” He says, his voice stoic and calm.

Erik looks at him surprised, but complies.

“So, until someone yields?”

“Or draws first blood.”

“That better not be your blood,” Okoye mutters.

T’Challa sends her a wry look, to distract himself from his mate, who is busy pulling his tunic over his head to expose his defined torso to the afternoon sun. The scars on his chest and arms are a mesmerizing pattern that moves like a Jaguar’s spots when he throws his shirt. M’Baku catches the fabric, and T’Challa’s stomach does a flip when he watches the open appreciation in M’Baku’s gaze as Erik stretches his shoulders.

“Good luck, your majesty!” Everett calls, and T’Challa turns around to find him and his sister wearing the same goddamn smirk.

He moves to pounce on Erik without hesitation.

This is not a fight to the death, no kingdom or planet at stake, and his mate is not insane with rage right now. Erik is experienced, his punches pack real strength, but he still fights like an enhanced American, without using the advantages the herb grants him fully.

T’Challa blocks every single one of his lukewarm strikes as he advances, and slowly but methodically pushes Erik to the edge of the field.

“Damn, slow down, man. I thought we were just sparring-”

“Your balance is sloppy,” T’Challa cuts him off and places a methodical kick against Erik’s hip that sends his Alpha flying into the shallow water. The stream has been cleaned up, there are no sharp stones in there to worry about.

Erik emerges with a snarl, angry as a wet cat.

“Okay, you fucking asked for it, Cuz.”

“Am I to assume this means you’ll fight me seriously now?”

Erik lunges and him and _yes_ , this is what T’Challa has been longing for. Merciless and fierce, Erik comes at him with vicious speed.

It’s a true challenge now, especially since T’Challa cannot predict his moves that well. He takes several hits to his torso, thighs, revels in the sting of pain, and barely ducks his head from under an honest-to-Bast roundhouse-kick. He gives just as good, revels in the joy of the fray.

Erik smells like the river, like smoke and sandalwood and _aggression_.

Like need, like addiction.

“This more to your liking, your majesty?” Erik growls, and advances, catches T’Challa’s kick, strikes his other leg and pulls them both to the ground.

T’Challa twists around, lets their momentum carry him, seizes Erik’s wrists as the other flails for purchase, and lands his knee square against Erik’s sternum. He pins his cousin to the ground, arms above his head, knee to his throat.

“I’m not bored, at least,” He says coolly.

“Fuck.” Erik kicks his legs, tries to get out of the hold, and T’Challa increases the pressure on his neck slightly.

“How did you do that? Fine, I yield.”

T’Challa lets go and gets up in one fluent movement, and then extends his hand to the Alpha who still lies on the ground, breathing heavily.

Erik considers it for a moment, then takes it and allows T’Challa to help him up.

“You don’t fuck around.”

“You are not as good as you should be,” T’Challa gives back calmly. “You need specialized training.”

“For the herb-thing, you mean,” Erik says. “Yeah, I noticed that I’ve become stronger. But it’s not…”

“General.” T’Challa looks at Okoye, who watches him with an amused smile. “The Prince needs instruction. Would you arrange something?”

“If my King commands it.”

“He does.”

“Very well. I will send you a message regarding your schedule, my Prince.”

Erik looks from her to T’Challa, and finally at M’Baku.

“You don’t have to let them bully you into training you don’t want,” M’Baku says, and meets T’Challa’s eyes unimpressed.

“I want it. Just wondering what’s in it for the King, I guess.”

“The heart-shaped herb is sacred. For you to carry its powers unused could be considered a form of sacrilege. One I would like to rescind,” T’Challa says.

“Not that you deserve to have it,” Shuri remarks.

“Okay Princess, you’re pissed at me. I get that. I even get why you’re out for my blood-”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“-but this is getting really fucking tiring. You wanna hit me? Meet me in the pit.”

Shuri hisses, and picks up the staff she was practicing with.

“Don’t think I won’t.”

Erik snorts, and gestures towards the training field. “Be my guest.”

With a serious glare, Shuri stalks into the field, and Erik follows her, with his usual relaxed swagger. Ayo and Okoye both look at T’Challa with concern.

“Cousin,” T’Challa calls out and meets Erik’s eyes. _If you harm a hair on her head, I will obliterate you._ “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry, your majesty. Not gonna- ooof!”

Shuri has used her opponent’s distraction to handle the staff much like a baseball bat, to hit Erik straight in the stomach.

“Jesus, Princess, okay.”

Erik catches himself, and strange enough, there is no anger in his body language. He whirls around and aims a low kick at her, but it is slow enough for her to jump over it and charge into a new attack.

Shuri knows that she doesn’t have enough training to beat Erik yet. She is a genius, but at sixteen, her experience is limited, while Erik has spent his entire life fighting. But Erik never uses that advantage for anything else but avoiding her most vicious strikes, and T’Challa realizes that he is not watching a fight so much as a lesson.

“Stop playing,” Shuri growls.

“I only take complaints from people who execute proper footwork,” Erik gives back with a smirk.

He lets her get three more strikes in, then he catches her wrist and disarms her with a move that she should have known to guard against.

“Okay, so I think we’re done for today.”

Shuri glares at him with narrowed eyes and tears her hand out of his grip. “Don’t think I will forgive you that easily.”

“You’re welcome to try and beat my ass again. What say, same time next week?”

“You are _on_ , Erik Stevens.”

“That’s Prince Erik to you.”

“When hell freezes over.”

“Wakandans have very strange ways of making friends,” Everett remarks casually.

“That’s the Golden Tribe for you.” W’Kabi huffs. “They’re all like big, territorial cats, basically.”

“True,” M’Baku says dryly, and looks at T’Challa. “It’s why their Chief has to be adept at herding them.”

“A common misconception.” T’Challa lifts an eyebrow and gestures towards Shuri and Erik, who are descending further into a merciless exchange of bickering. “As you can see, cats are quite adept at herding themselves.”

“Okay, may I ask something? If it’s not offensive. If it is, just tell me to shut up,” Everett asks.

“Go ahead,” T’Challa says, amused.

“What exactly is the Golden Tribe? I’ve read that term a few times now, but it is never explained.”

“The Golden Tribe is the tribe descended from Bashenga, the first Black Panther,” T’Challa says. “The Chief’s line can be traced back directly to him.”

“So, your tribe, basically.”

“Yes. We are the smallest tribe, with only nine families. Currently, we have a bit over five hundred members, most of which are in the Palace’s employ in some way.”

“Must be strange, to have a whole village for extended family,” Everett says, with an undertone of longing.

“It has its upsides and downsides,” W’Kabi says and grabs the Omega’s shoulder with a kind smile. “If you want the real village experience, you should stay at Okoye’s and my house for some days.”

“Um. I, er, really?” Everett asks, flustered.

“He wants you to bake him more cake,” T’Challa says.

W’Kabi sends T’Challa an impervious glance, and then winks at Everett. “Just showing our guest around our beautiful country. What’s wrong with that?”

Before anyone can answer, several Kimoyo beads all give a ping, T’Challa’s among them. A glance at the red blinking display has his smile fade.

“An emergency alert?” Shuri asks. “Brother, do you know what this is about?”

“No. But we will find out shortly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [So, I have a tumblr.](https://batgirlonawafflerampage.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> If you are over 18, feel free to come yell at me, or cry about these three beautiful idiots together. I'm a supernatural/dc/multifandom, multishipping blog where everything is tagged.


	10. now with an extra serving of elevators

 

T’Challa puts his robe back on as they all hurry back to the Palace. The alert calls for a meeting in the council room.

“Who sent the alert?” W’Kabi asks in the crowded elevator up.

“Nakia,” Shuri says with a frown at the message her Kimoyo beads display.

When they come into the throne room and take their seats, Ramonda, the River Tribe Elder and the Commander of the War Dogs are already present, the latter in a loud discussion with Nakia. With alarm, T’Challa notes his friend’s reddened eyes.

“What is going on?”

“My King,” The commander says, and they all greet him with crossed arms. Nakia gives him a nod, and the heartbroken expression never leaves from her face.

“Tell me what happened,” T’Challa orders.

“There was an incident with our War Dog cell stationed in Mumbai,” The commander speaks up, regretful. “An explosion destroyed our established local base. We suspect a targeted attack. Their assignment was compromised. There are no survivors.”

“How could that happen?” T’Challa asks sharply.

“They were working on dismantling one of the largest human trafficking rings in Asia,” Nakia says. “A friend of mine was part of the unit. Lesedi sent me an update hours before the attack. They were planning to make a move on the Ring’s next auction.”

“It is a grievous setback,” The commander says. “But there is nothing to be done now beyond retrieving the bodies.”

“My King, I wish to take on this assignment.”

“Nakia, stand down.” The commander glares at her. “I have already denied your request. You will not risk us further compromising our position for a foreign child!”

“A child?” T’Challa asks quietly.

“It isn’t of consequence, my King. Our operative established a local cover-”

“Lesedi had a daughter with an outsider,” Nakia says. “An Omega daughter, who I have strong reasons to suspect was taken by the men who killed her parents.”

“The child is not one of our own,” The River tribe Elder says, with a troubled look at his daughter.

“How can you say that?!” Nakia says. “How can any of you sit here and justify doing nothing?”

“We are establishing an outreach center-” her father tries to soothe her.

“T’Challa!” She turns to him with tears of rage.

Blood pounds heavy-hot in his ears, in his throat. He feels his mother’s knowing eyes on him, sees Shuri’s troubled frown, W’Kabi’s tense, stoic face. Okoye meets his eyes with sage conviction, and approval. Slightly behind her, there’s Everett, with the posture of someone who knows he’s not supposed to be there, but he still gives T’Challa a slight, percipient smile.

T’Challa’s mates look at him.

“Prepare the Talon. We leave in an hour.”

“My King, please. You don’t need to-”

“We will _not_ leave this child to its fate!” He is on his feet before he knows it, tries to keep the fury in his voice at bay. “Nor will we leave that mission unfinished. So help me Bast, I _will_ see this done!”

Nakia tackles him with a hug, and he catches her easily, lets her soft scent soothe the cold fire in his chest.

“Thank you.”

“We will bring your friend’s daughter home together. I promise you.”

“My King. Who will you take on the mission?” Okoye asks.

“The compound where they keep the trafficked children and Omegas is guarded heavily,” Nakia says as she eases out of T’Challa’s arms. “The local police is corrupt to the core, we cannot count on them. The guards will not let any Alphas near their _cargo_.”

T’Challa nods with narrowed eyes.

“W’Kabi. You took Hindi as an elective.”

“Yes, my King.” W’Kabi crosses his arms in salute.

“I’ll come if you want me to,” Everett says, and everyone turns to look at him. He shrugs. “I speak decent Urdu, and you never know when you could use an American.”

“Yes. Okoye and Ayo, you will provide backup from the Talon if necessary.” Both Dora Milaje jerk into a salute.

“Shuri, we will need the upgraded communications. I need you to coordinate the intervention with trustworthy local law enforcement.”

“You gotta get the media on board,” Erik says, and T’Challa has to suppress his surprise. “If you’re gonna go in as Black Panther, you gotta cover your bases.”

“I’m on it,” Shuri says, holograms flickering from her kimoyo beads in quick succession. “Meet me in the lab in half an hour.”

“You know what to do,” T’Challa says to the room at large. “Dismissed.”

He walks to his apartment hurriedly and takes a very quick shower, dresses into simple jeans and a nondescript black shirt, western style, and throws some clothes into a bag. When he opens his apartment’s door, he almost runs into M’Baku.

“Pardon me.”

“Slow down, your majesty,” The alpha says calmly.

It’s not easy, urgency twitches in every muscle of his body, but T’Challa allows M’Baku’s voice to ground him.

“What can I do for you?”

“He’s gonna ask you to tell me no when I ask you to come along,” Erik says as he rounds the corner, head tilted and arms crossed. “You think I didn’t know what was up, _honey_?”

M’Baku sends his mate an unnerved look. “I know better than to trust in your common sense by now, _Olufẹ_.”

“I would not take you on this mission, no matter what either of you asked,” T’Challa interrupts and walks towards the elevator at a brisk pace. “You are an Alpha, so you would be useless in the field, and you are not trained to operate with the rest of my team.”

“You’re taking the white boy.”

“Everett doesn’t have your temper problems.”

They both get into the elevator with him and T’Challa steels himself against their scents as the doors close. Clean sweat, earth, sandalwood, musk and smoke and coconut, something in him wants to roll in that combined scent of his mates forever. He sends a quick prayer of Thanks to Bast for the blocker’s dampening effects on his own nose.

“Fuck you, I don’t have temper problems.”

T’Challa raises an eyebrow and gives Erik a moment to revise that sentence.

“You are welcome to observe the mission. If you play nice with Shuri, I am sure she will explain her monitoring to you.”

Erik looks at him, eyes inquisitive as he searches for something in T’Challa’s expression. T’Challa turns to M’Baku.

“The same goes for you, Chief M’Baku, if it holds any interest for you.”

“I will accompany my mate,” M’Baku says.

“You know, can’t believe I’m really saying that, but you’re aware that you’re not responsible for your father’s mistakes, right?” Erik says.

“Am I not?” T’Challa challenges, and the Elevator’s doors open. He leaves the confined space and ignores the goosebumps that run down his back.

“You are not,” M’Baku says.

“Who else is, then?” He asks, jaw tense as he approaches the Talon that waits on the landing platform. “It falls to me to fix what he neglected, and I will do so to the best of my abilities.”

“You ever get tired of that whole honorable bullshit?” Erik asks.

T’Challa turns on his heel to glare at him. “No, I do not. Now either tell me why you are still bothering me or keep your quiet!”

He does not wait for a reply. Instead he stalks into the airship and towards the pilot’s seat- Ayo and Okoye are both busy with their own preparations, and he desperately needs a distraction. He throws his bag into one of the empty seats and ignores his mates, who enter the ship behind him.

“You know how to fly these things?” Erik asks.

“No, I have grown so tired of you that I have determined to end this,” T’Challa says and starts the engine.

“Touchy King.” Erik clicks his tongue. “You always like- whoa!”

The Talon leaps into the sky with a jerk, and Erik falls on his behind with a satisfying thump. A very short glance at the onboard monitoring shows him that M’Baku was smart enough to take one of the assigned seats. T’Challa steers the ship into the setting sun, towards Mount Bashenga.

“So, where do I learn to fly one of these?” Erik stands back up and steps next to him.

“At the Royal Academy of Aviation. A pilot’s license usually takes a year to acquire.”

“M’Baku, get over here. You gotta see this.”

The planes stretch out below them, the mountains in the south to their left, all of it bathed in golden-red light. It’s a kind of beauty that is too large to ever comprehend fully, T’Challa thinks. Not unlike the faces of his mates, wide-eyed and bathed in that same light.

Mount Bashenga comes closer rapidly, and T’Challa steers the Talon into an elegant curve.

“You might want to sit down for the landing.”

Techno pounds loud and heavy through Shuri’s lab. His little sister stands in the middle of the three biggest terminals, ordering around five hurried lab techs while she types on two different screens at the same time.

“Sand table,” She calls over her shoulder, and T’Challa approaches the structure in question obediently. W’Kabi and Everett arrive next, and then Okoye and Ayo join them, both in the covert dark brown of the Dora Milaje’s stealth uniforms. Finally, Nakia arrives. T’Challa reaches out and puts a hand on her shoulder in comfort, and she looks so miserable that he pulls her in for a proper hug.

“I’m sorry,” She mumbles into his shoulder. “I know this is the worst possible time…”

“Not the worst possible,” He disagrees with a faint smile. “And what kind of King would I be if I didn’t help my friends who need me?”

“Alright, is everyone here?” Shuri moves in like a whirlwind. “These are your communicators. Stick them behind your ear, I upgraded them to blend with every of your natural skin tones. Even yours, white boy.”

She hands out the tiny, round devices, then moves on to three belts, which she hands to Nakia, Everett and W’Kabi. “If you press the buckle, these will project a force field of a one Meter radius that will deflect bullets and most smaller grenades.”

“Most?” W’Kabi asks.

“They’re still in development. I thought about bulletproof underwear, but you are going undercover. These are easier to hide,” Shuri says and gathers an assortment of round devices. “Here are short range EMP grenades. They will disable any technology that didn’t come out of this lab within a ten feet radius. They can also be programmed to jam communications.” She collects them into a suitcase and hands it to W’Kabi.

“I have provided Sneakers for all of you, upgraded for undercover use.” She gestures towards a table to the side where the footwear is presented. “Press the button on the ankle to turn on the sound absorbing function. You can put changes to color and design with your kimoyo beads.”

“Neat,” Erik comments.

He and M’Baku are a little to the back of Shuri’s audience, but they watch with interest and T’Challa has to force himself not to look at them constantly.

“Colonizer, this is for you,” Shuri says and takes a device from the far corner of her table. It looks a lot like a classic gun, but T’Challa recognizes the material as one of the specialized Vibranium alloys he and Shuri developed together.

“American style?” Everett says, lips curled with amusement.

“You got it.”

“Colonizer is the least flattering nickname I have ever heard,” W’Kabi says with disapproval.

“Nicknames are not meant to be flattering,” Shuri gives back.

“I don’t mind, actually. There’s worse,” Everett says and shrugs.

“It can also stun, is undetectable by metal detectors and it has a function to cut through metal up to twenty centimeters thickness.”

“Got it. Thank you, your Highness.”

“You’re welcome, Everett,” She says with a smug smile at W’Kabi. “Brother, come with me.”

Shuri hooks her hand into his arm and pulls him towards the mannequins where the Panther suits are displayed. As soon as they are out of hearing range, she lowers her voice.

“Are you sure about this?”

“I will be fine,” T’Challa says quietly.

She purses her lips, and takes a sleeker version of her blood-scan device out of her pocket to poke his arm. It makes a noise, and she frowns.

“According to the last reading, you should have more than eleven days left today, but your current scan gives you just about nine. You are metabolizing slightly faster than expected.”

“This mission will not take more than three days,” T’Challa says. “I will- when I return, I will tell them.”

She looks at him with an unhappy expression, but nods. “Okay. Now come here.”

With a tender smile, Shuri places the necklace around his neck. “Put it under your shirt and activate it.”

“I only packed five spare outfits,” T’Challa protests.

“Just trust me.”

“The last time I trusted you, you sent footage of me flying through this lab to all our friends,” He says, but activates his suit anyways.

It flows across his skin in an instant, cool like water with fine threads of lightening woven into it. And it doesn’t disintegrate his clothes.

“Nice,” Shuri says and eyes his outfit with a grin. “Although you could do with a little more color in your fashion choices. What do you think of Aloha Shirts, brother?”

“Nothing.”

“It would look good over the suit.”

“Don’t ever speak to me again.”

Shuri cackles, and keeps her arm hooked into his as they leave the lab and the elevator shoots them up to the landing platform.

“Be careful brother.”

“I promise. Will you let Erik and M’Baku observe the mission?”

“If you promise me that you won’t take unnecessary risks to show off.”

T’Challa looks at her affronted, but she does not buy it, and he lowers his head slightly.

“I have to confess that the idea… has occurred to me.”

“If you want their attention, I know something you could do to get it,” Shuri suggests with a smirk.

“This is not about- it is about proving myself. Not as their mate, but as a King.”

“You are hell-bent on not leaving another child behind like Erik was abandoned, yes, I think even our dumbass cousin figured that one out.”

“I have to,” T’Challa says quietly.

The elevator’s doors open with a hiss, and Shuri pulls him into a tight hug.

“If you get hurt, I will set Mama on you.”

“I will do my best to avoid it,” He concedes with a gentle smile.

The rest of his team arrives on the platform, and they board the Talon, collected and calm, the underlying tension barely visible in the slightest press of Okoye’s lips, Everett’s ice-smooth expression. Nakia’s jaw is clenched, W’Kabi’s arms crossed, shoulders tense under his cloak, and Ayo’s eyes are narrowed as she does the routine safety checks on the Talon.

“Your Majesty.”

M’Baku’s voice has him turn from the observations on his team, to look at his mates. They stand easy next to each other, comfortable, like they’re ready to guard each other’s backs at a moment’s notice.

“Chief M’Baku?”

“Take care, T’Challa.” M’Baku meets his eyes with a frown. “Wakanda needs its king to return.”

“Watch your back,” Erik adds.

“I’m not going alone,” T’Challa replies, and hopes it will ease their worries. “And besides, I do have a very competent mission control.”

He turns to smile at Shuri, and is faced with her kimoyo bead’s recording function. She looks at him innocently.

“I made some adjustments to the Talon’s propulsion units. I hope to get some feedback when I meet the experts on Saturday.”

“You are the devil,” T’Challa says to her and can’t even bring himself to pretend to care that his mates are watching.

“Have a safe flight,” Shuri chirps.

Ayo is already cross-legged in the pilot’s position, the rest of the team secure in the seats, and T’Challa resolutely refuses to look at the closing door. Then the Talon lifts off into the sky, and they leave Wakanda behind.

They use the four hour flight to review the satellite images and maps of the part of Mumbai where the Ring’s compound has to be located. Nakia briefs them on what they know about the explosion, which is uncomfortably little. Something about the situation does not sit right with T’Challa’s instincts, and from the way Okoye and Everett eye the maps, he knows he is not alone with that.

They approach Mumbai, and not even the ship’s Vibranium hull manages to cancel out all of the noise, vibration, scents, the sheer presence of twelve and a half million people below them. In the cover of darkness and with the aid of the newest version of their cloaking technology, T’Challa and Nakia descend onto the ruins of the War Dog headquarters in well-worn street clothing. There is nothing to be found, and T’Challa doubts it will get better with daylight.

 _“This was done professional and ruthless,”_ Everett says, voice tight. The rest of their team is watching the new scans from the ship.

“It’s a dead end,” Nakia agrees.

 _“Then get back up here so we can go to rest,”_ Okoye says.

“No. We need to ask around the neighborhood.” Nakia juts her chin, and T’Challa follows her after a moment’s consideration.

It’s nighttime, but in this part of town, that does not mean a lot. Mumbai the city never truly sleeps in any case, T’Challa learns from Nakia’s mumbled explanations. Her instincts are flawless, and a while later, a thin child with bare feet approaches them.

Nakia kneels down and speaks to him in gentle Hindi, and hands him a bundle of rupees that has the boy’s eyes grow big. She gets an enthusiastic answer. An address.

In the streets where the harbor district slowly turns into the slums, they finally find a complex of two warehouses adjacent to a small office building. T’Challa and Nakia keep to the shadows of the surrounding buildings as they circle the perimeter. There are guards on every possible point of entry, and T’Challa doesn’t like the way they stand- trained, rigid with discipline. Someone is spending a lot of money on these mercenaries.

 _“We read unusual Energy signatures from within the building, my King,”_ Ayo says. _“I am sending the scans to the Princess right now.”_

 _“Received.”_ Shuri’s voice confirms, clear as if she were standing right next to them instead of the safety of her lab. _“But there is- Bast damn it.”_

“What is it?” T’Challa asks calmly.

_“There is an unusual amount of lead pipes in these walls. I can’t get a clear enough scan from the Talon’s sensors.”_

_“We cannot move in much lower than this without compromising the cloaking function,”_ W’Kabi says, troubled.

“You don’t need to. I’m going in,” T’Challa says. He looks at Nakia, who nods, lips pursed.

_“Okay, this is on right- you can hear me, yeah?”_

His heart skips a beat when Erik’s voice joins the connection, and he can’t help the smile. Nakia regards him with wry amusement.

“Hello, cousin.”

_“So, this complex is a tactical nightmare. There’s more guards in there, guaranteed. And your royal hackers can’t find blueprints of the place. This entire thing stinks to high heaven.”_

_“He is right, my King,”_ Okoye says, disapproval heavy in her tone. _“We must approach with all possible caution.”_

“But we cannot delay,” T’Challa says firmly. “We do not have the luxury of time in this. Shuri, tell me when I am close enough for the scans.”

He presses Nakia’s shoulder once, takes off his disguising clothes and turns his suit underneath entirely matte black with a touch to his wrist. Without a sound, he jumps up onto the roof. There are almost no blind spots in the rotation of the guards, but he manages to slip by them unnoticed until Shuri is satisfied with his position.

_“Very well. The scan will need a moment.”_

“How long?” T’Challa whispers and ducks on the roof as one of the guards approaches. He stays still as stone while the Alpha walks by, machine-gun at the ready.

_“Done. Now get out of there!”_

_“I had to move. They are very good,”_ Nakia says quietly. _“Meet me at these coordinates.”_

He makes his way back without incident. Once they are back up in the Talon, Shuri gives them the news.

_“We have a problem. At first I thought the sensors might have malfunctioned, but there is one Energy signature that matches with what we read within the compound. It’s from one of the files Stark gave you.”_

“It’s extraterrestrial, isn’t it?” Everett says with crossed arms and a frown at the Talon’s biggest screens where their scans are shown next to comparative data.

 _“They match to 98 % with the readings of Chitauri weapons that were used in the Attack on New York,”_ Shuri confirms.

“How does a bunch of crooks get their hands on alien technology like that?” W’Kabi asks with narrowed eyes.

“They’re not a simple bunch of crooks,” Nakia says. “There was a reason Lesedi and her squad investigated them for such a long time.”

“I think I might know someone who can give us intel,” Everett says. “There are not a lot of people with the connections to get Chitauri weapons, and if the last report that I read is still correct, there is only one provider in this region. The CIA has a contact man here in Mumbai who might be able to help us.”

“Will he talk to anyone else, though?” W’Kabi asks.

“He’s willing to talk to anyone with deep enough pockets.”

“Good.” T’Challa nods. “Tomorrow you and I will seek him out while W’Kabi and Nakia run ground surveillance on the compound to figure out their guard rotation. We need to move on them as soon as possible.”

After the briefing, they eat their rations, and Everett entertains them with horror stories about American military food. His descriptions have Okoye and W’Kabi in a state of disgusted fascination, and T’Challa watches in amusement as his friends bicker and joke around the Talon’s small table. The tension never leaves entirely, though.

Nakia takes her food in front of the smaller screens to the side, while she scans Lesedi’s old mission reports. Ayo is still in the pilot’s seat, unflappable as she watches the radar, sensors, and the glimmering lights of the city below. T’Challa approaches her with her tray of food.

“I will take the next watch, Captain. You should take your rest.”

“My King.” She scans him for a short moment, and then nods. “Okoye volunteered for the midnight shift.”

She leaves the pilot seat and he sits down.  Everything is in order. The Talon has enough fuel to remain in the sky for several days longer and still manage the way home three times over. The communications whirr softly, surveillance of local, mid-range and global radio waves, as well as satellite connections. There is only one that interests him at the moment though.

 _“Brother,”_ Shuri says with a soft smile. She is at her work station, in different clothes, with a half-eaten tray of food to the side.

“You should go to bed,” T’Challa admonishes, because he is a big brother after all.

_“Not the first night I will spend in my lab, and it won’t be the last. Besides, I can’t be rude to my guests now, can I?”_

_“How gracious,”_ Erik quips.

Shuri’s eyebrow twitches and with a touch to her kimoyo beads, she adjusts the camera to a wider angle. Erik lounges in front of a smaller workstation, several of the mission’s files open, a cup of something steaming in his hand while he scrolls with sharp, narrowed eyes. Behind him, on a bench in front of the central spiral staircase, M’Baku sits with his arms crossed, shoulders relaxed, and an expression of mild interest while he watches them.

“You’re not making our cousin do all the grub work, are you?” T’Challa asks amused.

 _“He volunteered.”_ Shuri shrugs. _“Plus, if he wants to intern with mission control, he’ll have to go through the same process as everyone else.”_

 _“Uhuh.”_ Erik snorts. _“How long’s your average intern last? Five minutes?”_

_“That depends entirely on them. I set the same standards for everyone.”_

“If she does not make you run her hydraulic test series, you’re doing fine,” T’Challa says.

_“Ugh. Do hydraulics suck as bad in Wakanda as they do at MIT?”_

_“Worse when you have to account for the Vibranium alloys our systems are made out of,”_ Shuri says. _“It’s a pity my brother has two jobs already, because I’d hire him just to take care of the calculations.”_

“So sorry to prioritize the King’s duties over your fanciful engineering.”

_“You better be. Check this out.”_

She sends him the schematics for a new mining lift, and with a demonstrative eye-roll, T’Challa gets to it. He already has the mission’s files memorized and the night is calm, so there really isn’t anything better to do. He spends the evening working, pauses ever so often to bicker with his sister or scan Nakia’s updated mission notes.

By the time Okoye relieves him, when he tells Shuri goodnight and gives his mates a polite nod, his head whirls with images, floor plans, Erik’s fierce sparring, report lines, tool schematics, M’Baku’s calm expression. Exhausted to the core, he falls on the Spartan cot and into a dreamless sleep immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this took me forever to write for three reasons:  
> 1\. I had a family emergency, but no one died so I got that going for me, which is nice :D  
> 2\. I was on vacation  
> 3\. Oh god this is a bitch to write. And the next one's not gonna be any easier, I'm biting my way through the first draft rn. 
> 
> So, in conclusion, the next update might take me a little while, but I hope you liked this chapter.  
> I wish all of you lovely people Happy Pessach, Happy Easter, and a nice, comfortable Sunday!


	11. i hope you didn't think this would end well or something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things don't go so smoothly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Sorry, it doesn't get any better than this.
> 
> Content warning for human trafficking.

  


  


“Absolutely not!”

  


T’Challa wakes to the Talon's low hum, the soft beep of his kimoyo alarm, and Okoye’s hissed words. He sits up, and the first thing he sees is Everett, with crossed arms, glaring up at W’Kabi and Okoye, a stubborn set to his chin.

  


“What is going on?” T’Challa yawns and stretches his shoulders.

  


“Nothing, your majesty.” Everett replies and approaches him. “Good morning.”

  


W’Kabi purses his lips, but neither he nor Okoye say anything, so T’Challa lets it go for now. They have breakfast, and then he and Everett make their way into the hot, humid, crowded streets below. The sky above is pregnant grey. His enhanced senses take in the multiple scents, voices, car horns, colorful clothes, street vendors, playing children, scooters, people, people everywhere.

  


It is overwhelming, but he can’t permit himself to get lost in it. _Snow_ , T’Challa thinks, and _Wood_ , and _Warm, steady Fire_. Like he just stepped out of that elevator, the scent of his mates comes back to him, grounds him. A gauge to measure the world against.

  


“You okay?” Everett mumbles.

  


“Yes.” T’Challa nods.

  


_I have something to return to._

  


Everett’s contact is a grey-bearded beta tea shop owner, who eyes them warily.

  


“What do you want?” He addresses T’Challa with narrowed eyes, distrust evident in his posture.

  


_That’s right. I don’t have a scent._

  


“Information.” Everett speaks up smoothly. Their contact only looks at Everett reluctantly, and raises an eyebrow.

  


“I sell tea, omega.”

  


“We are looking for a different kind of acquisition.” T’Challa allows, and exchanges a glance with Everett. “One somewhat more lasting.”

  


“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  


“Who supplied the Chitauri weapons for the compound in the lower east side?” Everett asks casually, like it’s an inquiry about the closest train station.

  


The beta crosses his arms and takes a step back.

  


“Who is asking?”

  


Everett looks at T’Challa, and T’Challa gives him a small nod. Prepared, Everett hands the man a bundle of rupees. The man takes the money, thumbs through the bundle, and lifts an eyebrow.

  


“The man you are looking for is called Kameleon. He organizes local… charity events.”

  


“We are going to need an invite to the next one.” Everett says.

  


“That won’t be cheap.”

  


“We are not cheap.” T’Challa says coolly.

  


“Well then, pretty boys. You have a bank account?”

  


_“Got him._ ” Shuri says. _“Go ahead.”_

  


“I do. How much for an invitation and your silence?”

  


T’Challa meets the beta’s eyes, dead-serious and cold. The other man looks at him surprised, aghast, and then breaks into a mocking grin.

  


“You can’t afford it.”

  


“Try me.”

  


He says a number, and Shuri laughs in T’Challa’s ear.

  


_“Done. What a bastard.”_

  


“Check your bank account.” T’Challa orders.

  


The man squints at him suspiciously, then he vanishes into the back. He returns several minutes later, wide-eyed, with a burner phone in hand.

  


“I can bring the invitation to you tomorrow morning.”

  


“We’ll pick it up, thank you kindly.” Everett says with a bland smile.

  


On their way back to the talon, they have to dodge a tail, but with Shuri’s satellite surveillance, it’s almost too easy. They join Nakia and W’Kabi at the compound to observe the comings and goings of their target. In the evening, they share the observations on the guard changes. It seems almost impossible to get into the building.

  


“We need more time to scope them out.” Okoye says with a frown after the third holographic review of the outside guard changes.

  


“I agree.” W’Kabi reaches out and turns the hologram. “There are only three points of entry.”

  


“Every minute we wait, the children and omegas in there are in danger.” Nakia argues.

  


“Shuri.” T’Challa says. “Do we have an exit strategy for the omegas?”

  


_“Yes. I have contacted some reliable people in the local media and we are using the contacts of the outreach program. Erik negotiated with the police.”_

  


_“Had to grease a few palms. Never realized that I could start my own small country just with the War Dogs' fund for bribe money.”_

  


“It’s the smallest budget point.” T’Challa replies.

  


_“Who’d have guessed you’re such a blowhard, cuz.”_

  


“You will mind your tone when you talk to your King.” Okoye admonishes.

  


“Can we please focus?” Nakia says with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “We need to come up with a plan of attack.”

  


“She is right.” Everett nods. “And I think I have an idea.”

  


“No.” W’Kabi says. “Your idea is irresponsible, risky and dangerous.”

  


“It would be the fastest way to get inside.” Nakia considers.

  


“What is your idea?” T’Challa asks with a frown.

  


“Your American wants to get himself captured.” Okoye says with a glare at Everett. “W’Kabi and I caught your sister talking him through implanting a tracking device in his arm this morning.”

  


“And it worked?” Everett shrugs. “It’s not like they’d hurt the goods too much. I trust you to get me out of there.”

  


“No. I will not risk any of you.” T’Challa says. “If we do this, I will go. I am an omega, they will take me.”

  


“No!” Okoye growls. “This is a terrible idea, T’Challa. Neither of you will do this with the approval of the team!”

  


“You’re the King, and the leader of this mission.” Nakia agrees. “I’ll go.”

  


“I will not permit anyone else to face this danger.” T’Challa says firmly.

  


_“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”_

  


“What do you want, my Prince?” Okoye asks through a sharp-gritted smile.

  


_“Seriously, y'all gotta stop with the self-sacrificing bullshit and figure out a plan that works.”_

  


“He is right.” W’Kabi says determined. “We can do this without sending anyone into the lion’s den.”

  


“I second that. We have to find a better way.” Okoye says. “The children need to be extracted before the auction, so we can apprehend the perpetrators without dividing our attention.”

  


“Given the estimated number of guards, we will need you or Ayo on the ground.” Nakia allows.

  


Everett crosses his arms and leans back, while W'Kabi and Ayo chime in with more suggestions.

  


Nobody is happy with the plan that they settle on in the end, but out of all the options they discussed, it is the best compromise.

  


"Show me what we have on that Mr. Kameleon." T'Challa requests when they are done. The things that come up seem usual, if there is such a thing for an internationally renowned criminal. Arms dealing, some opioids, and unsurprisingly, human trafficking.

  


There is a newspaper photo of the man, shaking the hand of some local politician. T'Challa commits his face to memory.

  


Night falls quickly across the city. None of the noise diminishes. At least not to T’Challa’s sensitive ears, while he climbs his way down from the hovering Talon to distribute Shuri’s EMP devices.

  


_“This should be easy.”_ Shuri says cheerfully. _“I had the intern mark the spots on your map.”_

  


“Thank you.” T’Challa replies dryly. It's more for the reminder that his mates are watching this mission than for the blue glowing dots in his visor.

  


He switches off the suit’s biofeedback monitoring function. Just in time to avoid evidence of his elevated heartbeat, when Erik speaks:

  


_“I went ahead and mapped you two possible routes. If you quick enough, you can pull it off in one guard rotation. The spots are calculated for maximum EMP damage.”_

  


“I appreciate it.”

  


He chooses the shorter of the routes that Erik suggested. He also ignores Shuri’s sighs when he uses two shortcuts that involve acrobatic leaps, because he can. It’s fun.

  


In the middle of the night, Nakia alerts them quietly. Together they watch a lorry approach the compound. A scan of the vehicle shows a group of 17 people jammed together on the load bed. T’Challa forcefully relaxes his hands at his sides.

  


“Less than twelve hours.” W’Kabi says next to him, a determined tension to his chin. “They will be free.”

  


“If everything goes smoothly.” Everett reminds them with a frown.

  


“It will. We should all take our rest while we can.” Okoye says sternly. “Go back to sleep.”

  


Mornings start early in the city, people eager to use the hours before the sweltering heat truly sets in. As soon as the streets have filled adequately, Nakia and Everett carry out the second phase of their plan. It starts with a loud conversation in irritated Urdu:

  


_“Excuse me, I believe you owe me an apology, Mister!”_

  


_“It was you who ran into me!”_

  


T’Challa listens to the fight via comms with half an ear, but he is too tense to be amused by his friends’ theatrics. Next to him, W’Kabi crouches, equally silent as they lie in wait in a close alleyway.

  


_“Okay, they’re drawing a crowd.”_ Shuri says. _“The guards have taken notice, and they don’t look happy.”_

  


_“Y’all need to escalate this a little more.”_ Erik says. _“Just take the- Okay. Or that. That works too.”_

  


_“Nakia just flipped a market stall.”_ Shuri chirps.

  


_“I’m gonna add that to the running list of recompensation, yeah?”_ Erik chuckles.

  


_“Concentrate!”_ Okoye growls.

  


_“Guards are stepping in.”_ Shuri says. _“Erik, set off the EMPs.”_

  


_“On it.”_

  


The devices detonate, perfectly timed as expected. Right on cue, W’Kabi and T’Challa move. They knock out the first pair of guards. A quick test of the men’s comm devices tells them that the EMP fulfilled that purpose at least.

  


They make their way straight into the building, and are immediately met with four more guards. Bullets fly, well-aimed, but Shuri’s shield on W’Kabi’s belt works. T’Challa runs along the wall, jumps, flips mid-air and lands in the middle of his enemies. They go down, easy violence that doesn’t quell an ounce of the anger that burns in his chest, fists, limbs.

  


“Show-off.” W’Kabi rolls his eyes, and they proceed deeper into the building.

  


One level down, W’Kabi pulls T’Challa into cover just in time to avoid a blast of something glowing and blue. Blaster fire.

  


“Shuri, did you see this?”

  


_“On it, brother. I think- yes, we are dealing with Chitauri weapons. Nakia, watch out for the one on the roof.”_

  


“Any recommendations?” W’Kabi asks, while the fire continues.

  


_“Don’t get hit. I don’t know how well my shields will hold up against them.”_ T'Challa hears unwarranted guilt in his little sister’s voice. He makes a mental note to extirpate that later. There is no way Shuri could have known to prepare for this.

  


_“Also, bring me back some of these guns.”_

  


“I will.”

  


_“Be careful!”_

  


They don’t really have time for that, but he doesn’t need to tell her. Instead, T’Challa makes use of his superhuman speed and leaps out of cover. The hallway is narrow, but he manages to navigate it and avoid the laser blasts. W’Kabi is at his back, and as soon as they reach the group of guards, it’s over for them.

  


They find the first room of captive omegas in that hallway, and it leaves them in a dilemma. It’s mostly children, one or two teenagers among them, and they are all scared.

  


“You bring them outside and to safety.” T’Challa says to W’Kabi. “I’ll go on.”

  


“I don’t like it.” W’Kabi frowns, but there is no question that they can't leave these children here.

  


“Shuri, what was the name of Lesedi’s daughter?”

  


_“Navijah.”_ His little sister sounds distracted, but if she’s still answering, it can’t be that complicated. Alright then.

  


T’Challa disables his suit’s helmet and crouches down, to be on eye level with the closest child. He pronounces his Hindi carefully:

  


“Hello. My name is T’Challa. This is my friend W’Kabi, and we are here to rescue all of you.” He looks around the room. “Does anyone here know of a girl named Navijah?”

  


There is a long moment of silence, then whispers and a shuffle.

  


“She’s in another room.” A small boy replies, his face anguished and scared. “There are more rooms downstairs.”

  


“They take you when they find a special buyer for you.” One of the teenage girls adds.

  


“Alright. Please follow my friend W’Kabi outside, and be as quiet as possible. He will protect you.”

  


T’Challa exchanges a glance and a nod with W’Kabi, and stands up. Just in time, he sees the movement out of the corner of his eyes, and leaps to shield the door’s opening with his body.

  


The Chitauri laser hits him straight in the chest, and Shuri’s design ripples. And holds.

  


_“Brother?”_

  


_“Cuz, you alright?”_

  


“So you are the punks that have been disturbing my operation.” Kameleon steps out, blaster at the ready, a calculating sneer on his face that pulls into a grin. “My, aren’t you a pretty one. Would you like me to find you a good alpha?”

  


The Panther’s mask materializes on his face as T’Challa stalks ahead, outflings his claws, snarls.

  


“ _You_.”

  


Kameleon laughs, fires two more shots, and then backs away quickly. T’Challa follows him into the maze of hallways. They don't have maps for this part of the building. Red haze, T'Challa doesn't care, and only slows when a scratchy transmission comes in.

  


_“-fucks sake, T’Challa, hold up!”_

  


“What do you want, Erik?”

  


_“Props for wanting to murder that bastard on the spot, but you can’t right now.”_

  


“That would sound reasonable if it came from anyone but you.”

  


_“Tell me about it after you scan the building. Fifteen meters down the hallway, place the sensor on the eastern wall.”_

  


“Did Shuri collect more readings?”

  


_“Princess is busy with Nakia and your white boy. They took out the front guards. You’re stuck with me for now.”_

  


“What?”

  


_“Concentrate. They got this. But we need that scan.”_

  


T’Challa curses under his breath, and Erik snorts. He performs the scan, and glares at the slow upload bar. The lead in the walls makes itself known after all.

  


“W’Kabi, status?”

  


_“I’m about to exit the building.”_

  


_“Local aid is on the way. Bring the kids to these coordinates.”_ Erik replies.

  


_“Received.”_ W’Kabi confirms, the same moment as the upload completes and Erik curses.

  


_“T’Challa, get out of there right now!”_

  


“Status, Erik.” T’Challa commands, while he moves through the hallway.

  


_“Building's rigged with bombs. Those on your level got affected by the EMP but if those under you detonate, they’re gonna go off anyways.”_

  


“I can’t leave until I find the rest of the omegas.”

  


_“There’s three trucks starting from the north point of entry right now.”_ Erik says. _“My bet is, Kameleon’s been planning this move for a while.”_

  


“Bast damn it. Where are Okoye and Ayo right now?”

  


_“Fighting the other half of Kameleon’s mercenary army. I’ll tune you in. Get a move on!”_

  


_“-to the entrance!”_ Okoye shouts as Erik adds him to the first team’s channel. _“Get the omegas!”_

  


There’s the sound of blasters, and then an explosion.

  


_“Everett!”_ Nakia screams.

  


_“Nakia! Go to-”_

  


Another explosion sets off, then everyone yells at the same time.

  


_“They’re getting away and they have Everett!”_

  


_“Fuck!”_ W’Kabi curses. _“We need to follow them now.”_

  


_“We can’t.”_ Nakia says, strained. _“If we compromise it now, they will put off the auction and move everyone somewhere else, including Everett and Navijah.”_

  


_“They were already ready to abandon this place anyways.”_ Erik says. “ _It’s all rigged and you need to get out right the fuck now.”_

  


_“Move”_ Okoye shouts.

  


“Shuri, Erik, is the perimeter clear?” T’Challa asks.

  


_“Yes. Fire department are informed anyways. They will take some time to get there.”_ Shuri says, strained.

  


“Good.”

  


The compound goes up in flames and smoke. It’s empty, there’s no one to save inside. It’s far from a victory.

  


Up in the talon, T’Challa half-heartedly washes the dust and soot from his face. He joins Nakia and W’Kabi, who look at the biofeedback transmission from Everett’s tracker darkly.

  


_This is not how this mission ends. Bast help me, I am going to see this through._

  


W’Kabi meets his eyes, troubled, glances back at the screen, and then sighs. When he looks up again, there’s steely determination on his face.

  


“So, what is our plan?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I still hate this chapter, and that is despite the fact that I have been glaring at it for the better part of a year now. Also sorry it took so long. Life, eh, you know.
> 
> I'd like to make grand promises of how I now have an upload plan, or any discipline, or any shame, but, sorry, that would be complete bullshit. In any case I'd like to thank the people on the server, and tumblr user frozenbrimstone as well as that one dedicated anon. Thank you guys, you gave me that occasional smile that I needed <3.
> 
> Right, I made my problematic [tumblr](https://batgirlonawafflerampage.tumblr.com/) all pretty, have a look if you're an adult.   
> Also, I made a [prompt page](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CGCATOprompts/signups/new) because I'm an idiot.


	12. a mission's end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where some shit goes down and T'Challa kicks some ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for human trafficking, sexism (I think), and, like, the feelings you get from a confrontation with an irredeemable villain. And violence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It’s not working.” W’Kabi says, voice strained. “His communicator is not working. Why?”

“He got a glancing blow by one of the Chitauri blasters. He was using his shield to give me cover.” Nakia says.

This is the third time they have reviewed the confrontation and the resulting firefight that was supposed to be a mere diversion and ended in Everett’s capture.

“You were not supposed to escalate, Nakia.” Okoye says sharply. “What in Bast’s name were you two thinking?”

“The sensors picked up on a large group of people that was moved through the building, and we improvised.” Nakia replies, and swallows.

“There is no use in debating it now.” T’Challa intervenes, firm but quiet. “I saw the footage as well. Agent Ross chose to move in a way that would draw their fire to give Nakia an opening. That was his choice. We need to focus on the next step of our mission.”

It effectively ends the conversation. That’s good, and T’Challa firmly refuses the gnawing worry in the pit of his stomach. The sun sets on the fourth day in Mumbai, and the mood inside the Royal Talon is abysmal.

 “He left the gun the Princess made for him.” Okoye stares at the weapon in question, anger in her voice. “I briefed him on the necessity of protecting our technology.”

“He planned this.” W’Kabi agrees quietly.

_“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to-”_

“This is not your fault, Shuri.” Nakia interrupts. “Everett is a grown man, and he knew what he was doing. Thanks to him, we managed to get 14 people out the front.”

They did. Altogether they managed to save 32, children and mostly female omegas that were left behind in the compound. Male omegas sell for a higher price. T’Challa breathes through the nauseating thought.

“The assault on the auction is going to be complicated.” Ayo reminds them solemnly. “We need to start planning.”

_“I can’t oversee everything._ ” There’s still regret in Shuri’s voice. _“T’Challa, with your permission I’m going to assign our cousin to your unit as a permanent handler for this mission.”_

_“I’m fine with that if you are.”_ Erik chimes in.

T’Challa’s stomach wants to do a flip, but the grave urgency of the situation prevents it. Still, to know that Erik willingly chooses to support him through this mission settles something restless in his chest.

“Thank you.”

_“You’re welcome.”_

Nakia and W’Kabi just nod, while Okoye presses her lips together tightly. But something prevents her from disagreeing, and T’Challa quietly thanks Bast for it. There is a lot to talk through.

The auction is held the next day.

Shuri sends him a text message over their private, sibling-encrypted channel. It contains only one cypher.

5.

The venue Kameleon has chosen for his auction is a fancy hotel, far from the slums or even the dusty streets of the middle class neighborhoods. Palm trees and white-plastered sidewalks, well maintained flowerbeds with a fountain in the middle. Nothing about the hotel’s exterior hints at the event that is to take place there tonight.

W’Kabi and T’Challa arrive in a rented limousine, bespoke suits, no weapons detected by the mandatory metal detector. T’Challa keeps his hand hooked into W’Kabi’s arm, and avoids all eye contact. Omegas are pretty, they speak when spoken to, and they don’t show initiative. The best way to navigate these crowds is to assimilate, as grating as it is.

The hotel’s biggest ballroom is reserved for the “Charity Event”. The Invitation that T’Challa picked up from the tea shop this morning holds up at the entrance, and then they’re in. Across the room, T’Challa catches Ayo’s eyes. She and Nakia have been scouting the room for two hours already, disguised as waitresses. The crowd of attendees is colorfully dressed, wealthy alphas and betas parading the occasional omega around the room. On leashes, in two memorable instances.

“This is disgusting.” W’Kabi mumbles with contempt.

_“Yeah, this is tacky even for rococo standards.”_ Erik comments, sardonic.

“I’m talking about how they treat their omegas.” W’Kabi says sharply.

_“And here I thought we were talking chandeliers.”_

_“If you don’t cut this out I will end you.”_ Okoye declares, deadly serious. She is on standby above the hotel, ready to drop in at a moment’s notice.

“Is everyone in position?” T’Challa asks.

_“Unit one ready.”_ Shuri confirms.

_“Unit two ready.”_ Erik replies.

The auction begins. Kameleon himself steps onto the stage to host it.

“Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen. Thank you so kindly for your loyal patronage…”

 T’Challa feels bile rise. He has known anger, at his enemies, his loved ones, and even his ancestors. He has known hatred, for the man that killed his father. But he has never felt the sort of cold, unbridled, calculating rage that fills him right now, while he looks at Kameleon. He wonders if this is what Erik feels all the time. If it is, he can’t blame his mate.

_“I see them.”_ Nakia hisses, right that moment when three mercenaries lead an array of omegas onto the stage. There is Everett, he sticks out through age and skin tone, and he has his hand on the shoulder of a girl, maybe six years old. Just from body language, T’Challa knows they have found their mission’s mark.

_This is as far as this will go._ T’Challa realizes right then.

The original plan was to let the auction commence, note the buyers that would take Navijah and Everett, and interfere only afterwards. At the risk of letting one or two buyers get away, it was the safest way. It’s not happening.

_This won’t be happening._

“All units. We are advancing the plan. Nakia, prepare to set off the charges.”

To her credit, Nakia only hesitates for a second.

_“Affirmative.”_

On the comm channel, someone sucks in a sharp breath, but no one protests. It’s too much. Kameleon’s easy going smile as he jokes with his audience is too much.

The charges by the door explode, and in an instant, chaos breaks loose among the crowd. People scream and start running. Security yells into their headpieces, guns drawn as they stalk through the crowd like sharks. Up on the stage, Kameleon is ordering instructions, and two security guards seize the child and Everett. T’Challa moves.

Then Kameleon zeroes in on him and grabs Navijah by the collar of her dress, pulls her into the back to vanish behind the stage’s curtain. T’Challa lets his inhibitions go entirely and jumps directly on the stage.

The two guards around Everett don’t put up much of a fight. Everett actually manages to elbow one of them in the stomach with a move that T’Challa remembers teaching him. But his movements are clumsy and T’Challa has to catch him when he stumbles.

“Hey.” Everett mumbles.

“Why does your communicator not work?”

“No idea. Knocked me out. T’Challa, the girl…”

On closer inspection, the smaller man’s pupils are dilated. T’Challa tears his handcuffs apart, and then W’Kabi is at their side:

“Everett!”

“T’Challa, get that girl. Kameleon took Navijah…”

“I saw. Will you be alright here?”

“Sure. Was hoping you’d come for us.”

“W’Kabi?”

T’Challa exchanges a serious look with his best friend.

“I can handle this, T’Challa. Go, get the child.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. The panther’s armor runs across his skin under his suit. T’Challa uses the moment to get rid of the restrictive jacket, flings it into the face of one of Kameleon’s guards that waits for him behind the stage.

“Erik, I need directions.”

_“I got you.”_  

Erik’s voice is in his ear, and Bast damn it, it still makes T’Challa’s heart leap, even while he runs down the hallway.

_“Take the next left. Surveillance is disabled. If you contain it to this building, you might get away without making the national news. Third door to the right down here.”_

T’Challa only responds with a grunt as he leaps across a trolley of towels. The hallway rapidly fills with panicked, screaming hotel staff, as the building’s fire alarm sets off. Around the next corner, two of Kameleon’s bodyguards start shooting wildly at T’Challa.

Thankfully, Shuri’s design absorbs most of the kinetic energy, so there are no ricochets. The two men don’t aim that well though, and T’Challa has to disarm them before he knocks them out. It costs him precious eight seconds, and he only catches a glimpse of Kameleon dragging a struggling Navijah through a far door.

_No. I am not going to break my promise to Nakia._  

With a growl, T’Challa launches back into pursuit. Kameleon leads them through the bowels of the building, into a neon lit staircase that has Erik curse in his ear.

_“Shit, T. You’re in the part without cams. I don’t got eyes on you.”_

“I’m fine.” T’Challa replies while he leaps down a flight of stairs. “Tell me Nakia’s and W’Kabi’s status.”

_“W’Kabi is herding the kids and your white boy. The girls are cleaning up the exits for them.”_ Erik chuckles, ever so soft. _“Guess that’s them Wakandan gender roles.”_

T’Challa elects not to comment on that, because it’s too wide of a field, and because right then he catches sight of Navijah again.

“Kameleon! This building is surrounded! Surrender now and I will arrest you peacefully!” He shouts the words, even while Erik snorts.

“Do you think I don’t know that you want this one alive, kitten?” Kameleon replies, and drags the girl through a heavy steel door.

T’Challa leaps after them and catches it just before it falls shut. He steps out into a wide underground garage full of shiny cars- with no-one else in sight.

_“You’re about one level deeper than that stairwell was supposed to go, according to blueprints.”_

“It’s a secret garage for very well situated guests.” T’Challa says and side-eyes the selection of cars. “I am not surprised.”

_“Concentrate, your majesty.”_ That’s M’Baku’s voice, and this time T’Challa’s heart really jumps. Thank Bast the biofeedback is still turned off.

He drops into a crouch and enables Shuri’s upgraded x-ray lenses, but several cars in this place have components he can’t entirely see through.  He needs a better angle. Sudden shots from the corner of his eye fire, and T’Challa moves on instinct, leaps behind a concrete pillar, and then into the shade of a car. The places where the blasts impacted glow hissing red and smoke.

_“That did not sound like gunshots.”_ Erik remarks, tense.

“It wasn’t.”

_“Shuri’s sending Okoye right now. Stay put, she’s gonna back you up in two minutes.”_

“I don’t have two minutes.”

_“Don’t fucking move, cuz. I swear to fucking Bast-”_

“Erik, would you please _shut up_.” T’Challa says, sharper than he intended. “I need to concentrate.”

He activates the suit’s stealth function, and moves through the cover the cars provide, until the blaster fire starts again. This time, he pinpoints the shooter’s location. It’s instinct and irritation that makes him drop all pretense as he leaps directly across the cars. Two more of Kameleon’s men go down, and T’Challa can barely restrain himself from killing them.

“Step out of your suit or the child dies.”

T’Challa turns slowly. It’s Kameleon, and he has a laser gun, pointed straight at Navijah’s head. Time slows down.

There’s static on the comm line, or words, but they never make it quite into T’Challa’s consciousness. The little girl is crying, her cheeks dirty, hair in disarray where Kameleon’s hand is tearing it to hold her head in place. Kameleon grins at him, smug, yellow teeth. Erik’s voice is angry, frantic. T’Challa breathes, and his blood is cool.

He disables the suit. It retreats into the necklace and leaves him in the tattered remains of his shirt, and his suit pants, torn in several places.

“Oh, but aren’t you a handsome little kitten.” Kameleon sniffs the air. “Suppressants, but they won’t help you. I can always tell.”

“Let her go. If you want me, you’re going to have to take me.”

He ducks on instinct, as fast as his reflexes allow, and swipes a low kick. It throws the henchman that snuck up behind him onto the floor. Kameleon fires the same moment, and T’Challa turns mid-crouch to avoid the blast.

Navijah screams, Kameleon’s finger moves on the trigger again as he turns the gun to her, and T’Challa tackles him with a growl.

Pain, but he doesn’t quite register it. The blaster flies across the concrete, silk burns, Kameleon’s eyes are grey-blue, wide.

T’Challa breaks his neck.

It’s a clean snap, barely a movement, quiet. The little girl’s sobs alert him to the urgency of his situation a fraction of a second later.

There is a smoking hole in his side, three inches wide, edges burnt in a radius of another two inches, just above his right hipbone. A careful inhale, it doesn’t feel like his abdominal cavity is involved.

It _hurts._ T’Challa fumbles for the pocket of his suit to retrieve the small emergency medical kimoyo bead. He scans the wound, yes, good, just skin and flesh. Clenched jaw, he holds his breath and presses the bead into his side. The effect sets in almost immediately, dulls the pain down to a sting and seals the wound to prevent blood loss.

The Panther’s suit reactivates, flows across his skin in a soothing way. He leaves the helmet off.

“Kameleon is neutralized.” T’Challa says, proud of the even calm in his voice. He turns to the little girl seriously. “Hello Navijah. Do you know who I am?”

The girl shakes her head, but she stares at him wide-eyed.

_“You dumb motherfucker. Are you okay?”_

“I am the Black Panther.” T’Challa says. He tries a careful smile for Navijah. “I am from Wakanda. Did your Mama tell you about Wakanda?”

A nod this time.

“Would you like to go there?”

Hesitation, then another nod. T’Challa follows his instinct and opens his arms, and the next moment he has roughly 40 pounds of sobbing child pressing her face against his shoulder.

“You’re safe. We’re going to leave now.” T’Challa mumbles, and stands up. It puts a strain on his side, but he has had worse. A lot worse, and not that long ago, actually.

“Erik, status.”

_“Shit, yeah. Okay, so we got everyone out without problems, minus one thing.”_

“Who?”

“ _Your white boy took a hit for the General.”_ Erik’s voice is coolly neutral. _“Seems he was drugged. W’Kabi got hit in the leg carrying him to the Talon.”_

“Are they safe?!”

_“Yeah. Nakia’s wrapping things up with law enforcement right now. As soon as you and the kid get out, you’re on your way home.”_

“Put me back into the main channel. I’ll be there as fast as possible.” T’Challa strains against the throb of pain and forces himself to quicken his steps up the stairwell.

_“Honestly, T’Challa, are you all right?”_ There is a sincere sort of urgency in Erik’s question and T’Challa finds that he doesn’t have it in him to refuse it. But he’s not the only one hurt, and from the sound of it, not the worst off.

“I am fine.”

_“Seriously, if you weren’t the goddamn King. Who do I even report you to for that kind of dumbass stunt?”_

“I am the Black Panther.” T’Challa repeats, aims for dignified and settles for indignant.

_“Black Panther my ass. You can’t just take off your armor when a psychopath asks you to!”_

_“He’s right.”_ M’Baku agrees.

T’Challa knows he should be happy that his mates take an active interest in his wellbeing, but right now all he feels is tired.

“We are not doing this now. That is an order.”

_“Yeah, sure thing, your Majesty.”_

The Talon’s medical systems are already fully in use when T’Challa carries Navijah aboard. Okoye and Ayo greet him with a nod, but they don’t interrupt their work with several floating kimoyo beads. On the table, Everett looks pale, and there is a blaster hole in his left chest.

_“His left lung is burnt.”_ Shuri says seriously. _“You need to bring him here as fast as you can.”_

“We will.” T’Challa agrees. To the side, Nakia is busy applying make-shift bandages to W’Kabi’s right leg. T’Challa sets down Navijah beside them.

“These are my friends, and Nakia here knew your Mama. Please stay with them.”

“Yes.”

It’s the first time he hears the girl’s voice, and he wishes he had more time to be glad about the starstruck awe on her face as she looks around the Talon. Instead, T’Challa goes to the cockpit and sits down in the pilot’s seat, to fly his team home.

The Talon lands on Mount Bashenga’s platform, and the ramp has barely descended before Shuri is on board.

“This is not getting any funnier the second time, white boy.”

Everett makes a noise, something half-conscious that might sound like “Sorry” to a generous listener.

Shuri’s face loses all expression as she focuses on the Kimoyo beads. Her voice is cool alpha tone when she speaks. “Call Dr. Hileyo. I’m going to need his help this time.”

She sends T’Challa a quick, cursory glance, and he nods at her. “Take care of Everett, please.”

The sand bed follows her outside, Okoye and Nakia on her heel. W’Kabi is slightly slower, only because of his limp, and Ayo is at his side to support him. T’Challa leaves the Talon last and picks up Navijah. He focuses on her slight weight in his arms to ignore the sting in his side.

“Where are we?” the child asks, and curls herself a little closer against T’Challa’s chest.

“We’re in your Mama’s home now.” T’Challa explains quietly while he walks down the ramp. “This is the safest place in the world. No one will hurt you here, I promise, kidege.”

She nods, but presses her face against his chest all the same. At the foot of the ramp, they are greeted by his mother, Aneka and two other Dora.

“I see your mission was successful, my son.” Ramonda says seriously.

“Almost entirely.” T’Challa says and allows his eyes to follow where the elevator doors are just closing behind his two hurt team members and their entourage.

“And who is this young Lady?” His mother asks with a kind smile and steps close.

“This is Navijah, daughter of Lesedi. Navijah, this is my mother, Ramonda.”

“It is nice to meet you, Navijah.”

The girl looks up shyly and mumbles a soft “Hello.”.

“I need to look after my friends who are hurt, Navijah. Is it alright if you go with my mother now?”

The girl chews her lip, anxious, but then she nods, and allows T’Challa to transfer her weight to Ramonda’s arms.

“Then we’ll meet again tomorrow at breakfast.” T’Challa says. “Have a good night!”

“Try to get some sleep.” Ramonda gives back, before she carries the child away, followed by two of her Dora guards.

Aneka remains by his side, and T’Challa has to pull himself together to escape her observant eyes.

“Are you unhurt, my King?”

“I am fine. You should go and convince your wife to take some rest.” T’Challa says while he makes his way to the elevator.

Aneka falls in step beside him. “I doubt that Ayo will be persuaded to leave before the debriefing is done, my King. Besides, my rotation has just begun.”

“We will postpone the debriefing until everyone’s injuries have been treated.”

The elevator’s doors open and they rush down. There is no music in Shuri’s kingdom tonight, and the air is tense in the room above the main lab. W’Kabi sits to the side, with one of Shuri’s technicians treating the wound on his leg while, T’Challa really doesn’t need the spike in his heartrate right now, M’Baku and Erik watch with interest.

Okoye, Ayo and Nakia get up, but he shakes his head before they have the chance to greet him formally. With W’Kabi gritting his teeth and one life still in the balance, he doesn’t think he can stomach the formality right now.

“Are you alright?” Nakia asks him, low and worried. “The last thing we heard from you was N’Jadaka cursing a blue streak because you disabled your armor.”

“I am fine.” T’Challa says, as reassuring as he can while he ignores the growing sting in his side. The Kimoyo bead’s anesthetic reserve is almost used up, but it will have to hold a bit longer anyways.

“You should all go get some sleep.” He addresses his team and carefully avoids meeting anyone else’s eyes. “We will debrief properly in the morning, when everyone can be present.”

“With your sister’s permission, W’Kabi and I will wait here.” Okoye says, equal parts deferential and stubborn.

“Yes, I was thinking the same thing.” Nakia nods. T’Challa sighs. Of course his team never makes things easy for him.

“Very well then. If you’ll excuse me for a bit, I will be right back.”

There are several smaller rooms in the upper level of the design group’s laboratories. T’Challa chooses one that is sufficiently far away from the main lab with the supplies that he needs. He engages the monitor’s privacy protocol with his own override codes.

The Panther’s suit retreats into the necklace, and T’Challa takes it off carefully. Bare-chested but in the still mostly intact remains of the suit pants, he rummages through the cabinets for the things he needs.

“That’s the Black Panther’s definition of fine then?”

He falls into his defensive stance instinctively. There in the doorway stands M’Baku, arms crossed, and Erik, leaning against the frame. Both of them look decidedly unamused.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, the next one might get interesting. Also I'm currently working on Erik's POV of Chapters 10, 11 and 12, I'll link to it when it's done.


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